The Dark Dimension
by bethanyyerinn
Summary: John is having an ordinary day when he gets taken by slavers and taken to a world where humans are scum and monsters rule with an iron fist. Then he gets sold to the Holmes family and begins to work for Sherlock, a vampire with a reputation for killing his servants. Johnlock (and very light Mystrade). Teenlock. Vampire!Sherlock. Dark Dimension AU. Trigger warnings within.
1. Fell's Church, Virginia

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**_Dark Dimenstion AU_****: Okay. So let me explain something to you about this. The Dark Dimension is this really cool place in a book series called The Vampire Diaries. But, you may notice that this is not a crossover fic. This is for two reasons. 1) You don't need to know a single thing about the books to understand this fic. All the knowledge you'll need comes from Sherlock; and 2) I'm not even using the location exactly how it is in the books, just using the basic idea of it and tweaking it for my uses. But I still want it to be known that the original idea of the Dark Dimension is owned by the author of The Vampire Diaries, L.J. Smith, and any of the other creators there may or may not be. **

**Okay, sorry that was really long, I just don't want any confusion—or worse, copyright issues. **

**So anyway, rated M for eventual smutty smut and violence. A general TRIGGER WARNING for torture and molestation/rape, since it's going to happen, but probably not to any intense degree and not graphically. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

John had no idea why he allowed his sister to plan this road trip. She decided she wanted to go to school in California, first off, and then when John finished his sixth former years, her "treat" to him was to let him tag along on her cross-country road trip of America. So he'd spent the last two months getting dragged all around fucking creation with his sister that he wasn't even that close with. It was actually kind of fun though, at first.

Until it all went to hell, of course. Literally. But I'm getting ahead of myself. That comes later.

John didn't like America so far. First of all, the weather was horrible in most places (in the eastern half of the country, that is. The west was actually kind of a paradise because it was so nice, especially in California, but as Harry went to school in California, they spent little time there). He always thought the rain in England was bad enough, but in the American South or the Eastern Seaboard, it was _humid_, which was far worse. It felt like he'd rolled around in sweets for hours at all times because he was so sticky, and he sweated even when it was cold. And the people were strange too, both stand-offish and too familiar at the same time. And there was nothing worse than any American accent. No matter where he visited this summer—they went from West to East, visiting LA, San Francisco, Seattle, Las Vegas, Austin, Chicago, Philadelphia, Orlando, New York, and Boston so far—they all had very different accents, but all of them were equally hideous in their own way. And when they went to all these places, Harry hardly spent any time in the actual cities either. She'd go somewhere near the city and then disappear for a day, allowing John to roam.

But somehow, John was still having a good time. Maybe just the fact that they were just hopping in a car—whose stupid steering wheel was on the wrong side—and going wherever the wind took them. There wasn't even really a plan, which meant sometimes they went up and down coasts in no particular order, taking double the time they needed to. They were in Boston when Harry decided she wanted to see Virginia. John didn't get it, but apparently she was fascinated with Civil War monuments. Made no sense to him, but he was pretty much letting her call the shots. He got a responsibility-free summer in another country, he wasn't going to complain too much (out loud).

But then they got to this little town in Virginia called Fell's Church and John really didn't understand why they had come. First of all, it was another humid place, and he was fucking done with this humidity shit. Bring the pouring rain, whatever, but the scorching hot humidity really needed to stop. And the town was also tiny. Boring. There was nothing there.

"What the hell, Harry? Is there even a monument here?"

She was quiet for a while. "Okay, I need to tell you something," she finally said. John was worried immediately.

"Okay…" he said tentatively.

"I came to America for a reason."

He blinked. "For university?" he asked, his voice patronising.

She rolled her eyes. "Okay, yes, that, but America _specifically_. Because I could've chosen anywhere."

"Because of your Civil War monuments obsession?"

The eyes rolled again. "No. That was just a cover."

John should have known. The fascination was just so strange. "Then what did you come here for?"

She took a breath. "Okay, so have you ever heard of ley lines?"

He was quiet for a moment. "No."

"Okay, well they're the alignments of certain historical or geographical locations in relation to each other. Basically, people study where these significant places are and how they relate to other places in the area."

"Okay…" John muttered, but he was actually lost.

"Some people believe that ley lines can have spiritual or magical qualities. I've been fascinated with them since secondary school, so I just started looking for them all over Britain. But I never found anything interesting. And then I heard of some of the ley lines in America, and how strange things have happened on them. So I started to go to school here."

"So… you came to America to find ghosts on lines in the ground?" he asked to sum up.

"… That's kind of it, I guess. But there's more to it than that. Supposedly, there are some places where many ley lines intersect, and it makes really strange things happen. Can even open portals to other universes."

His sister was completely mad. Alright. But he kept listening, because it was a bit interesting anyhow.

"So I've been going on this road trip visiting some of the places with intersecting ley lines, seeing if there would be any supernatural activity. So far, nothing. But then I heard of this place, Fell's Church. According to some websites, there are so many ley lines crossing here that there have been actual vampires, werewolves, witches, and kitsune living there like normal people. Because ley lines attract supernatural, spiritual, and magical beings."

_Completely mental. She's lost it_, thought John.

"So we're here because I want to ask around, see if anything strange has happened in the past fifty years or so that any of the townspeople would have noticed."

John was still just staring at her. Then, "So you think that vampires live in this town. And that there might be a portal to another dimension, and that magic exists?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, this is why I didn't tell you. Maybe you should open your mind a little bit, John."

"The moment I see magic of any kind, I'll believe you. Until then…"

"Well you don't have to believe me. But that's the reason we're here. So you can explore for the day, and I'm going to ask around."

"So when you disappear for a day or two in all these cities, it's to interview random people?"

She nodded. "You wouldn't believe how willing Americans are to blabber about their lives to strangers."

He smirked. "Well, okay, do what you want, I guess."

They agreed to meet back at the car in four hours and Harry got out and started walking down the street aimlessly. John decided to go the other direction and look for something to do.

* * *

It turned out, there was _nothing_ to do. Fell's Church was exactly as boring as it looked. Beautiful, sure, but completely uneventful. How Harry could ever believe vampires or werewolves or whatever would settle down in a boring place like this, he'd never understand.

Not that they existed at all. But still.

There were people on the streets in some places, mostly people around his age, maybe younger. Tanned and straight teethed, like most Americans were.

He was passing by a random little boarding house when it happened. He heard arguing from these weird voices. Well, they weren't _weird_, he guessed. They were American, yeah, but… they were so… _attractive_. That may sound strange, but these voices were beautiful—but also intriguingly chilling. So much so that he stopped in his tracks to listen without really even understanding why.

"We don't have enough young ones to choose from," hissed one man, his voice deeper than John thought possible.

"Who cares? The young ones are expensive anyway, most people don't bother," another male voice said, the voice strangely high in comparison to the other man.

"Yes, but Holmes requested a 'selection of human youth', and two is not a 'selection'."

"These are for the Holmes family?" came the sharp reply.

"The orders come from Mycroft."

There was a silent pause that John could read without seeing the men. They were petrified.

"Then how can we get more young ones? This town is too damn small, people notice disappearances, especially _children_. The kitsune hate when we are inconspicuous, and you don't want to get thrown into prison, right?"

John could almost feel the scowl of the other person at the mention of prison.

Then there was this strange noise… that John could have sworn was sniffing.

"Well," said the lower-pitched voice. "I smell a fresh young man just on the other side of this gate here. One I've never smelled. Must be a visitor."

The other gave a cackle that made chills go up and down John's spine. He knew now that he needed to leave, and fast, but he couldn't bring himself to move.

And before he could regain his motor abilities, the two figures jumped over the gate in one lithe, inhuman leap. One was tall and lanky, the other muscular and short, but somehow they both looked similar. Their faces twisted into the same cruel sneers. Both inexplicably attractive.

Both making John's survival instincts that he hadn't even known he possessed scream that he needed to run away.

And he was about to obey them too when the tall one came forward, speaking in the low voice (which surprised John, since he figured it would be the bulky one to have the low voice). "You will stay where you are."

Somehow, the ring of command in the voice resonated in John as he looked him in the deep black eyes, and he literally felt incapable of moving. In fact, he tried and nothing happened. Like he didn't have control over his limbs.

"Oh, he's a pretty one," said the bulkier man in a disgustingly suggestive voice as he looked John up and down hungrily.

"Holmes doesn't use his slaves that way, Vercon."

"I know, but Holmes will only take one of the young ones we have. He might pick one of the other two. And if he does, someone else might get… _use_ of this one."

John's eyes widened, because his face was the only part of his body he seemed able to control. They weren't actually implying… What the _hell_ was going on? When had he fallen asleep and started to have a horrid nightmare based on those weird stories Harry was telling?

"Who the bloody hell are you? What do you want from me?" he managed to ask, the rest of him still motionless.

They looked surprised. "He's a Brit!" said the bulky one. "That's some damn good luck!"

"Holmes will love it."

Then, before John had much more time to think, the skinny one swung John over his shoulder like he weighed absolutely nothing and gracefully hopped back over the fence—yes, he was definitely dreaming, because what this person did wasn't even physically possible… for a human, at least.

He got thrown on the ground.

"Alright, knock him out," said the lanky one. "We don't want him to see how to get in or out."

And the other one descended on him and with a quick, sharp pain the in head, everything went black.

* * *

When John awoke, the first thing he noticed was that he was still in this weird dream. He'd hoped he'd wake up.

But the thing he noticed immediately after that was that the light wherever they were was strange. Like someone had red filters over all the bulbs. He was on the floor, on something hard and gritty like gravel, but it all looked various shades of red and pink and russet. So did the legs of the two men in front of him, who were obviously the same two from before. But they certainly hadn't been pink before.

But that was when he let his eyes glance around a little more and he realised… they were outside. Meaning that there couldn't be filtered light.

But then why was everything tinted red?

The next thing he noticed was that his hands were fastened in front of him painfully in something metal… he was able to look down enough at his pinkish skin to see pinkish shackles.

"Welcome to the City of Darkness," said the low voice. "You're the last to wake up, Vercon hit you over the head far too hard. It smelled delicious."

John thought he'd heard wrong. What about hitting someone over the head _smelled_ good?

"Our blood healed you up nice and good though," replied Vercon. "You're ready for the auction."

John was led away and into a building. Here, the shades were drawn and candles were lit so the lighting wasn't red. There were two other young people in the room, and then one other man behind a desk.

John automatically labeled him as a wealthy aristocrat. Or a politician. Or both. He was wearing an impeccable Victorian style suit and had an amazingly patronising scowl on his face. But then it turned into an equally patronising smile when John was put on his knees by the two other boys, shirtless and forlorn. One was no older than twelve.

"This is better," said the man behind the desk. "He's a bit older, and looks strong too."

"Yes, my Lord, we thought you might enjoy him," said the lanky one. "And here's something else, my Lord." He elbowed his partner.

"You there!" cried Vercon. "Speak!" John knew he was the one being spoken to, but he didn't want to obey. He was starting to get the nasty feeling that he wasn't dreaming… which meant judging by conversation he'd heard and the manacles encasing his wrists, he was being sold as a slave—possibly a sex slave, depending on who bought him. Which meant he sure as hell wasn't going to be cooperative.

So he obstinately held up his chin and said nothing.

"You filthy—" started Vercon, advancing with an arm up to apparently hit John, but the man behind the desk stood and the other one stopped in his tracks.

"Stubborn, are you?" asked the other man, and John was surprised to hear a familiar accent. London. That was why they liked John's accent for this buyer. "I could easily whip that out of you," he said with a smirk. John swallowed thickly. "Now, if you don't want to see me get mean, I suggest you do as he says."

"I think he wants to prove I'm from England," said John.

The man's eyebrow tweaked up, and he looked at the slave traders.

"Interesting. You found him in Virginia?"

"Yeah," said Vercon. "Dunno what he was doing there."

The aristocrat bent down and looked John in the eyes, and then asked slowly, deliberately, "What were you doing there?"

The answer came out before he had decided whether to answer. "I've been in America for two months with my sister. She's been looking for ley lines that cross and make a portal to another world, and I'm starting to get a really bad feeling that she was right and I'm in some other place now."

John wouldn't have chosen to say so much if the words had come out of his own accord.

The man was silent, looking at John curiously.

"He seems rather clever, for a _human_," he said, saying the last word like he really meant 'rat'. He looked back to John. "My name is Mycroft Holmes, Lord of the Third District of the Dark Dimension. Do you know what I am?"

John wanted to say a lot of things. "Why should I know, I don't even know you", "_What_ you are? What's that supposed to mean?"

But John had been paying attention to both his sister and the slavers, and as Lord Holmes had so keenly pointed out, John wasn't stupid.

"You're some type of monster. A demon or a vampire or something."

He smirked. "Monster. I like that. I'm a vampire, yes. And you don't know the ways of our world, do you?"

John thought it was a rhetorical question, but Lord Holmes gave a glare that made John stammer out unwillingly, "No, my Lord."

"I thought not. This place, one of the four domains of the world, is the third layer down. At the top is the Celestial Court. What your people call Heaven. Then there is Earth. Below where you now sit is the Underworld, what your people may call Hell. But here, the Dark Dimension, is kind of like limbo between your world and the Underworld. It was created by God in order to separate so-called 'monsters' from humans, and so here vampires, kitsune, and demons reign, sometimes joined by other things like phantoms and werewolves. But sometimes, humans wander into our midst, or are brought here. And let me tell you what we think of humans, boy. They are the unpaid help, or they are dinner. There is no further use for them. So you should understand that now you are property. Nobody will care about your wellbeing, other than that you are healthy enough to work. If you act up or complain or refuse to comply, one of a few things will happen. I may Compel you to do my bidding—it's an ability vampires have to make people do things against their will, which is how I've gotten you to answer my questions—if I'm in a _very_ good mood. If it's a normal day, you shall be flayed publically, then healed with vampire blood, and then flayed again to the edge of death until you learn to comply. And if I had a particularly unpleasant event happen that day, I'll immediately suck all the blood out of you, which I hear is quite unpleasant if you are an unwilling participant. So I suggest very highly that you don't keep to your stubborn ways. You won't last long."

Somehow, the words were made even more frightening by Lord Holmes' matter-of-fact way of saying them. John took them to heart immediately. Not that he'd be totally obedient, but that he'd be careful not to display disobedience.

He didn't pay much attention as Lord Holmes talked to the slavers, but he did hear that Holmes was 'happy with the selection' and that he wanted to 'take his prize immediately'.

John still hardly knew what was going on, but a few things were readily apparent. One, he was in some other world where monsters ruled and humans were nothing but slaves or food. Two, he was about to be sold to a possible sadist and had no means of escape.

And three, he wasn't asleep. This was real. Which meant he was royally screwed.


	2. What's in a Name?

John was walking behind Lord Holmes with his shackles attached to a chain that was held in the Lord's hand. Now that John had given into the fact that he was really awake and this nightmare was truly happening, he took this time to examine his surroundings.

He knew quickly why the light outside dyed everything red. Because on the horizon, there was a huge red orb, ten times the size of our sun. Even with that huge sun shining, there were stars in the burnt orange sky, but the stars looked different than they did at home. John never figured he'd be able to tell when the constellations in the sky were different than he was used to, seeing as he didn't study the stars or anything, but they felt foreign to him. They didn't twinkle like stars should, just glared down at him with the orange hue of the world tinting them like everything else. He didn't belong here, and his surroundings agreed with him.

And then there were the people.

Though they were obviously not _people_, let's get that straight here. Sure, they looked mostly human. In fact, if John didn't know any better, maybe he'd think a lot of them _were_ human. But many had that inhuman, pale beauty that John was already associating with vampires, or maybe demons, since Lord Holmes had mentioned there being some. Then there were people that had cat ears sticking out of their hair and tales like foxes or something.

"Kitsune," explained Lord Holmes as if he heard John wondering. John remembered the word being mentioned by both Lord Holmes and his sister previously. "They're magical beings with a taste for mischief. They control the gates between the worlds and the _Shi Shi no_ prison. They have their own society outside the City of Darkness, but some choose to live here anyway."

And everyone, _everyone_, had the same look on their face. Cruel. Hungry. Sickly entertained by every nasty thing they saw.

Half of them dragged around human slaves. Some were crying and had blood soaking the back of their shirts (the ones that were lucky enough to even have shirts, that is, which were few), just coming back from some type of whipping. In fact, the crack of the whip was a near constant sound thus far, but John luckily was only hearing it from a distance and seeing the aftereffects, because he could officially call this the worst day of his life if he had to watch someone get tortured on top of everything else.

"Oh, he looks good," hissed a seductive, feminine voice to John's left.

Lord Holmes turned on him with his lips bared, displaying sharp canines jutting out farther than the rest of his teeth.

"Oh, Lord Holmes!" said the woman with a little smirk. "Sorry, didn't know this was _your_ dinner. I was considering taking it from you, had you been someone else."

Lord Holmes gave an eye roll. "A pleasure, as always, Countess."

"How many times must I tell you to call me Irene?" she asked with an alluring grin.

"I keep things formal in order to avoid you calling on me for some sort of sexual encounter."

"Oh, I don't call on anyone," said the Countess. "They call on me. Speaking of which, tell your brother to come by. I've been _dying_ to see him."

Lord Holmes glared for a moment before saying, "Good day, Countess Adler."

She smirked. "And to you, Lord Holmes."

She walked away, and John was suddenly a bit glad he'd been bought by Lord Holmes, at least for the moment, because otherwise she might have eaten him right then and there.

John didn't know whether he was allowed to speak, and feared that maybe if he did, he'd be killed on the spot for it.

But just after he thought it, Lord Holmes glanced back at him with an amused look on his face. "You have questions," he said.

John nodded mutely, and the Lord's eyes glittered with triumph at John's fearful silence. And John burned angrily on the inside at it, because he was never the type to let people boss him around… but he was usually not as weak as a child in comparison to all around him, or considered one of the main food groups.

"That is understandable," Holmes said. "This is a whole new universe to you. Ask your questions."

John thought carefully. He knew he wouldn't be given an unlimited amount, so what was important to ask right then?

"This place is called the Dark Dimension."

"Indeed."

"And you're… some kind of royalty?"

He chuckled a little. "Yes, I suppose you could say that. I am called 'Lord' because my father is the Earl of Sector Three. I, however, do all of his work for him, as he never liked politics, so people consider me the true leader. But still, out of respect for father's title, I am called Lord. There are twelve castles in the City of Darkness, and each controls one of twelve domains surrounding the city. Each of these domains has a Viscount that lives in the domain, who has control over the five Barons that control certain parts of the sector. So, as the Earl, I control the political and fiscal issues. The Viscounts are the ones who collect taxes and handle social issues. The Barons just keep control of the people, and usually administer public punishments to unruly slaves." This part he didn't say maliciously towards John, but it still made him want to inch away. "All these leaders are vampires."

"So you make the laws and the Viscounts and Barons enforce them?"

He looked back, the impressed look on his face condescending. "Yes, that was a quite succinct way of putting it."

"So that woman who was trying to eat me was an Earl?"

"To Sector Five, yes. She's known for not doing much governing, however, and whiling most of her time away with sex and the production of Black Magic wine, a quite delicious concoction that makes humans go into a state of euphoria almost akin to sex, apparently."

"And I'll be working for you… doing what, exactly?"

"I haven't decided what you'll be doing yet," mused Lord Holmes. "There are many options, for my manor is quite grandiose and takes a great deal of care to maintain. As of now, there are a few positions open, depending on your specific kills. One is someone to tend to the grounds, keeping the plants alive and trimmed and installing new fountains and statues whenever I so want them to. Another is someone to clean the front room on a daily basis, and also man the door in case I have visitors." John was surprised at the types of jobs being listed. Considering what he'd seen of this world so far, he expected jobs like torturing people or something… but this was all just a maid's work. Lord Holmes continued, "And there is another, but I doubt if anyone will ever be able to fill that job."

"What job is that?"

He sighed heavily. "Each of my family has a personal servant to attend to them. Mine is a boy named Gregory, who I've had for going on five years. My mother has newly acquired Molly after her last servant died of old age and father has Mary… but my brother has managed to kill his fifth one just this month."

"_Kill_?" asked John sharply without meaning to. "Does he… suck their blood out?"

Lord Holmes gave a laugh, like someone getting eaten as dinner was a funny prospect to him. "No, not like that. See, my little brother is quite… adventurous. He has his servants do strange things, like be part of queer experiments or accompany him to dangerous slums. Which I have no problem with, he can do what he pleases with the slaves, but they keep _dying_, that's the issue. And slaves are quite expensive. I need someone that holds one of two qualities. Is either hardy enough to handle my brother's trials or that my brother is just fond enough of that he doesn't try to get them killed. Preferably both."

John certainly hoped he got one of the other two jobs, which sounded more doable.

"I think that you're attractive enough that you'll be getting front room duty for the time being. Which means you get a nice set of clothes, as opposed to the other slaves, so count yourself as lucky."

_Right, real lucky for a slave_, thought John acidly. But still, compared to the slaves he saw walking around him, he was doing pretty well. Lord Holmes was even speaking to John like he was nearly worth his time, and that was more than could be said about the others walking down the street. Then again, he hadn't had ample time to disobey yet.

"Is there no electricity then?" asked John. He thought this might be a weird question, because if they didn't have electricity, then he obviously wouldn't know what it even is…

But he was quickly proved wrong.

"No. It's strictly illegal. With magic, such inventions of humans seem rather archaic, don't you think?"

"And you don't want to use something a human invented, whether it's useful or not," added John vehemently, biting his tongue too late.

But Lord Holmes only looked back with another humoured smirk. "Yes, I'd say that's part of it."

John was starting to privately wonder if Lord Holmes was really as intimidating as he acted. He seemed pompous and self-assured, yes, but not really cruel. Then again, there was something in his face that made John think he could shift personalities like the flip of a switch, and John assumed he wouldn't like that side of him.

"Welcome to Holmes Manor," declared Lord Holmes, and John looked up in surprise.

He didn't know what he expected the place to look like. A dark castle with bats fluttering around it and coffins in the front yard, possibly?

The house was beautiful. Old fashioned like a castle, yes, but the stones were a light pink, which made John figure they must have been white in actuality, without the strange sun tinting it. There weren't gaping gargoyles, but statues that reminisced of Greek culture. There were two fountains on either side of the yard, in the middle of the first thing anyone would notice looking at the property: thousands of roses. Some of them were bright red, like what people expect from a rose, but then interspersed equally were roses that were so incredibly dark that without close inspection, looked black.

"They are Black Magic roses," said Lord Holmes. "Used in making Black Magic wine. They can hold magical qualities if a kitsune chooses to enchant one, but in it of itself, it's just a beautiful bloom, is it not?"

And it really was. John was nearly mesmerised, looking at all the roses.

"So if I decide against having you work in the entry hall, you'll be looking after my roses."

John didn't find the prospect completely unappealing. Well, the whole slavery thing was never going to be appealing to him, but he'd given into the fact that there was no way he was getting out of that. He was actually feeling calmer about it that he probably ought to. Like now that it happened, he wasn't even surprised by it.

This is going to sound weird, but it felt like… he was meant to come here.

But not meant to be a slave. That's not what he meant. But meant to be in this world, at least for a time.

He was walking behind Lord Holmes to the door when the door opened, and out walked a young man, looking close to John's own age (but likely a few years older). He was very thin, wearing a suit similar to Lord Holmes', but with a purple shirt—or seemingly purple, but it could have been blue, considering the light—and the black overcoat going past his knees. He had sharp cheekbones and pale lavender eyes—that John could only assume were usually blue. His gaze was sharp and keen as he looked John up and down, and John suddenly became strangely uncomfortable with his lack of clothing (as he was only in short, ragged pants and no shirt).

"Please don't tell me this one is for me," said the young boy in a bored drawl.

"He's for whatever I desire," Lord Holmes retorted. He turned back to John again. "What was your name?" he asked.

John felt hesitant at telling his name at first, but then Lord Holmes' mouth curved downwards in displeasure and John stated his name.

John noticed that the young man at the door looked at him in shock.

"_John_ _Watson_?" he asked sharply.

John quirked an eyebrow at him, as did Lord Holmes. "Yes…"

He quickly composed himself. "You found another English one, did you?" the boy asked.

Lord Holmes didn't respond. He kept looking at John. "This is The Honourable Sherlock Holmes, my brother."

John looked up at him sharply. The slave killer. He should have known from what he asked the moment he opened the door.

"Oh, would you stop it with the titles?" asked the boy. "If you're going to refer to me," he said in John's direction, "none of this 'honourable' business. Mr Holmes will quite do."

"On that, I and my brother can agree," said Lord Holmes. "No need to refer to him with any title, it's quite the mouthful. And it's not like he _does_ anything. Plus, formalities can be such a hassle. My own servant calls me just Mycroft, and if you find yourself in my good graces the way he has, you may do the same."

John privately thought that he wasn't going to go out of his way to gain the right to call him by his first name, but of course he wasn't going to mention that aloud.

"It's getting late," said Lord Holmes. "I'll be taking you down to sleep with the other servants now." John glanced at the horizon, at the sun that was still in mid sunset like it had been when he arrived, and Lord Holmes gave a laugh. "The sun never moves," he said. "It's always up, looking like it might set in an hour. We're not in your world anymore, John."

Oh, yes, John was _quite_ aware of that.

John followed Lord Holmes inside, walking past his brother, who was still looking at him quizzically. Inside, John found relief from the horrible red lighting. He started to wonder if even the things that lived here didn't like it, because every building he had seen so far, from the inside or outside, had thick curtains drawn and were lit with hundreds of candles instead. The room was open and pale, with old-fashioned furniture and a magnificent chandelier.

He glanced back at the brother, Mr Holmes, and saw that his shirt was indeed a rich purple and his eyes a pale greenish-blue. The flickering light of the many candles brought the shape of his cheekbones into even sharper relief.

Lord Holmes led John through the house, through narrow hallways of pale stone, and they went down several floors, getting colder and damper as they went. Apparently, vampires made no noise when they walked, because all John could hear was his own breathing and splashing, pattering steps and the jangle of the chains that pulled him. Because of this, John noticed only when he saw the shadow on the wall that the younger brother was following them.

Finally, they reached a dim hallway with what could only be described as prison cells against either wall. Inside, there were beds with a sheet that would hardly keep someone warm in the temperature of the dungeon level and a toilet (thank god they didn't shun modern plumbing). One was empty, in between one occupied by a boy on one side and a girl on the other.

"You shall sleep here. A bell will ring when you should wake, and tomorrow morning you will come into the entry hall and I will assign you your job."

"Okay," said John quietly, looking forlornly at the sleeping quarters. How had his life been so thoroughly ruined so quickly? The cell was opened and he walked inside, huddling up in a foetal position at the head of the bed, wrapping his arms around his knees. The two vampire brothers looked at him in interest. "What?" he snapped, again realising that was a bad idea, but they both just quirked up eyebrows and looked amused.

"Are you sure you didn't get him for me?" asked Mr Holmes.

"If you want him, sure, but you're not to get anyone killed this time," replied the elder brother. "Goodnight, John." He walked out, and the younger brother still stood there.

In his presence, John felt his rebelliousness return to him, even knowing about the five servants he'd killed in just a month. "What do you want? Why don't you just leave me bloody alone?"

"Your name really is John Watson?" he asked, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Why are you so damn fascinated with my name?" asked John exhaustedly.

Mr Holmes looked him up and down for a moment. Then he said, "I only wanted to tell you that you can call me Sherlock. Mr Holmes is just a formality that _dear_ Mycroft enjoys."

"Well, thanks," said John sardonically.

"You're one of the ones that was taken from Earth," said Sherlock. "Just today, from the looks of it. You've been wanting to sass off to my brother all day, but you know you can't without being punished for it, so you're taking it out on me." John was mildly interested in how Sherlock knew this, but didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeming curious. "And Mycroft can pretend he got you for one of the other vacant duties all he wants, but you're obviously strong, both of body and mind, two things needed for a servant in my service. A muscular slave is more expensive than a thinner one, and he wouldn't have paid the extra unless you needed the strength."

"Well I'm hoping he didn't intend me for you," said John, "seeing as you have a reputation for killing your servants."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't _kill_ them. I take them on adventures and they happen to die. It's not like I'm the one that tears open the vein. If they would only listen to my instructions the way they should, no harm would come to them. Well, nothing I couldn't fix with a bit of my blood."

John's curiosity won out over his irritation. "Why do people keep talking about vampire blood like it's special?"

"Because it is," replied Sherlock. "It heals wounds in humans."

John was surprised by this. That kind of made no sense, considering what vampires _were_.

"The nature of a vampire is not all evil," said Sherlock. "In fact, if the human is not resistant, the experience of getting some blood taken by a vampire is actually quite pleasurable."

"Until they die."

"A vampire with the proper amount of control can drink just enough to satiate thirst without even leaving the human dizzy."

"Why are you telling me this?" asked John tentatively.

"Because I'm bored," replied Sherlock, and then he turned on his heel to walk out of the dungeons. "Until tomorrow, John Watson." And he was gone.

* * *

**If you like so far, please review! Thanks in advance!**


	3. A Very Close Call

It wasn't long after The Honourable Sherlock Holmes walked out of the dungeons when the humans on either side of John, who had been feigning sleep, sat up.

"My name's Molly," said the girl, coming over to the bars between their cells and thrusting her arm between them. John took it and shook, smiling a little in spite of himself at her enthusiasm. "It'll be nice having someone down here with me," she said, "Since Greg's leaving me!"

"Hey, it's not my fault," said the guy on the other side of John's cell. "Name's Greg," he said. "I'm Mycroft's personal assistant. He told me today I'll be getting my own room adjoined to his now, so I can be available to him at all times. So this is my last night down here."

"Lucky," Molly muttered. "I just watch after Countess Holmes, and she's dreadful. Most of the time she just absently stares into the fire, and when she speaks, she always yells like I did something wrong."

"Better to be her than to be Mary," hissed Greg, pointing to a sleeping figure across the way, whose blonde hair was just visible over her sheets. "She works for the Earl, and from the scarves she wears, he _drinks_ from her."

John was just listening to the conversation, having nothing to contribute. But then they both looked at him.

"So you're from London?" asked Molly.

"Yeah."

"So was I… you know, back before all this."

"Were you kidnapped?" asked John.

She shook her head. "My mum sold me when I was ten," she said, her voice oddly matter-of-fact, considering her words.

"She _what_?"

"I know. She was desperate, I guess. I have seven brothers, and she just couldn't afford it. I don't think she knew where I was going to get taken though…"

"Doesn't excuse it."

"No, I guess not, but you get used to it here."

John didn't know what to say to that, so he looked over to Greg. "Were you from London too?"

"No, but my parents were."

"You were born here?" asked John. He wasn't under the impression humans were born here.

"Yeah, a lot of human families have been here for generations, but my mum was brought here from Brixton when she was a teenager. See… it's kind of a weird story, my family. But my mum, she's a human. My biological dad… well, I dunno what happened really, but she never talks about it, and he got whipped to death for whatever it was… but he was already dead by the time I was born, and she got bought by this Baron from the Three slums when she was pregnant with me. Then he fell in love with her, and he called her and me his slaves, because it's illegal for humans to be otherwise, but we lived like his family. I call him my dad."

John was intrigued. From what he had heard so far, all the leaders were vampires, so this Baron dad of Greg's must have been too. Vampires could be that… sentimental? It hadn't occurred to him.

"Then Lord Holmes came calling because of my accent," Greg continued, "and he bought me. He'd have bought mum too, probably, but he likes younger slaves. My dad, he tried to say he wasn't selling, but Mycroft insisted, and you couldn't refuse the Earl's son. I really resented Mycroft for it, originally, but I kind of like it here, and he lets me visit my mum once a month and actually sends money to my mum sometimes, because he says I'm such a good worker that I almost deserve pay." John didn't see how that was a compliment, but Greg was acting like it was, so John didn't say anything.

"So were you just taken?" asked Molly to John quietly.

"Yeah. By some slaver… one was named Vercon."

She made a face. "I've met him. He's horrible. But he usually sells Americans."

"I was in America at the time," said John. "On a trip with my sister. She must be so worried…"

"There's no use worrying about your family in here," said Molly solemnly. "It'll only make things worse. Just be glad they're safe."

John was quiet. Suddenly he didn't feel like it was so strange, how resigned he was to his fate, just because these other two seemed resigned too. Even content.

"It's really not so bad," said Molly, as if she knew what he was thinking. "I don't like the Countess much, but as long as you do as you're told, you'll be fine."

"Unless I end up working for Sherlock."

Molly and Greg shared a significant glance.

"The last was called Mike," said Greg in a whisper, like it was indecent to talk about. "Mike Stamford. We dunno what happened exactly, but Sherlock was doing some type of experiment on him and he bled out."

John shivered.

"But maybe you won't get that job," said Greg optimistically.

But John remembered Sherlock's logic, and thus did not share the same hope.

* * *

They were awoken in the morning by a bell, and John didn't know how long he'd slept, but he gathered that it wasn't long by the heaviness of his limbs.

It took him only a moment to realise he was still in this mad red, monstrous world and that no matter how many times he went to sleep, he wasn't going to wake up somewhere else.

"What time is it?" he asked groggily as he sat up.

"Time?" asked Molly blankly. "Slaves don't get the privilege of knowing the time. We do things when we're told."

John didn't like that answer. But he got up and made his bed, since that what the others were doing. There were five of them in all. Mary, the one they'd pointed to the night before, then an older woman. Mary was very pretty, and had a rebellious glint to her eye that John could appreciate. But then he looked at the scarf round her neck and got slightly nauseous. He remembered Sherlock's words about being able to drink from a human without killing them, if you had enough control, and that it didn't even hurt as long as you didn't resist, but it still repelled him.

John followed the others through the damp passages and committed the path to memory as best as he could, since he didn't know he'd always have them to follow. Luckily, there were few turns.

"The other is Mrs Hudson," Molly whispered. "None of us know her first name, she never says it. She's the cook. There are other slaves too, but we're the favourites and get the best quarters."

"Why are we the favourites?" asked John.

"Because of the accents."

"Why is he so obsessed with the accents?" asked John.

"I think he misses England," said Greg.

"He's from England? I thought monsters are from here."

"They were, originally. But if people can wander here, don't you think it could go the other way round?" asked Greg. "Ages back, vampires found their way into the other world, and they've been roaming Earth for centuries. Or, at least, dad used to tell me stories about it. So Mycroft and his family came from Earth at some point."

"And how's their whole family vampires then?"

They were quiet for a moment. "I don't know," Molly finally said. "But I can't help but assume one of them was turned, and took it upon themselves to turn the rest. The Countess is almost completely nonresponsive, just stares at the fire all day and rarely speaks. She's been this way for as long as any of the slaves remember. I think she was turned forcibly and it's made her go into shock or something."

"I lean towards that theory too," said Mary, cutting into the conversation. "I work for the Earl… and let's just say I wouldn't put it past him."

"But why turn your family?" John asked, disgusted.

"Other than the drinking blood bit, the gig is pretty great," said Greg. "Super strength, speed, senses, immortality. They can erase memories and control people's minds. It's actually kind of cool."

"Anything for power," Mary added.

John wanted to say how revolting that was, but actually, it was quite… human.

Eventually, they all got to their posts, and John had to find the main entry on his own. He was in luck though, because he just went straight at all the forks and found it quickly. He assumed he wasn't supposed to change clothes, since none of the others did (and he had nothing to change to anyhow) so he went into the entry in just his jeans, shredded past recognition and splattered with just a little blood, probably from the head wound that made him pass out before he got to the Dark Dimension, which he now understood was completely gone because he'd been given vampire blood.

When he arrived, he stood at attention like his father used to make him, hoping this might please the masters.

It was strange to him how quickly his mind had melded into servant-mentality. Maybe it was just something about the place that made humans feel the need to be obedient.

Lord Holmes arrived a few minutes later with an approving look. "I thought you might try obstinacy."

"I don't want to die today," replied John.

He smirked. "Good choice." He walked forward. "I've decided it's door duty for you, at least for the time being."

"He won't like it."

Lord Holmes and John both looked up to the top of the stairs, where stood Sherlock Holmes.

"It doesn't matter if he likes it," said Lord Holmes. "He does what I ask."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "But I thought I needed a personal servant."

"Sherlock, you've shown you can't handle one."

"But I want this one," Sherlock said, making it sound nearly like a whine.

Lord Holmes' eyebrow went up. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Well, if we're really discussing what he wants," said Lord Holmes, "I think he'd prefer not to die within the week. If he wanted that, he'd have rebelled the moment he was sold. He has that spirit in him, I can tell."

"I'll make a deal with you," Sherlock suggested. "He'll do this job today, and if he likes it, he keeps it. And _when_ he hates it, I get to take him."

Lord Holmes glanced at John, and then back up at Sherlock. "Fine," he said. "But _if_ you get him, I'll flay you alive if you kill him. He's the most expensive I've gotten in ages."

He then spent the next ten minutes explaining John's duties. He'd clean the fireplace, he'd dust everything, he'd just tidy up in general. He was to finish this before the next bell rang. When that bell rang, he'd get into his uniform, which Lord Holmes gave him, and stand by the door and answer when someone came by. Then he would just do whatever the guest wanted.

"This is the most important part," Lord Holmes insisted. "If you disobey them, they have every right to punish you. I'll keep them from getting out of hand as much as I can."

John didn't know what that meant, exactly, but he didn't like the sound of it. He only nodded curtly.

"Then you'll leave your uniform here when the bell rings for the end of the day and go back to your room. Understood?"

"Yes, my Lord," said John.

"Then carry on." And he walked out.

The brother, Sherlock, was at the top of the stairs the whole time. John looked up at him, and he still had that look on his face, like he found John to be a curious creature.

"You're too young to have been in the military. But you act as if you were."

John was quiet for a moment, wanting to stay stubbornly silent, but then looked into those eyes and found himself answering. "My father was a military man. He raised me that way, before he left."

Sherlock didn't respond.

"You didn't answer my question last night. Why are you so interested in my name? Do you know a John Watson?"

Sherlock kept looking at him for a bit longer, and then turned and walked up the hall and was gone. What was it with him walking out in the middle of conversations?

John didn't think on it for long, doing his chores instead. They weren't fun, but they weren't horrible, because the house wasn't very messy in the first place. He didn't understand why Sherlock thought he'd hate it so much.

Then the bell rang and he hurried and put on his new uniform. It was a nice suit like the Holmes brothers wore, Victorian style. He even got a top hat, and his vest was dark blue.

And then he stood by the door and waited.

The first call at the door came not long after.

John went forward and said what he was commanded to. "Welcome to Holmes Manor. State your business."

He realised after he said it that he knew this woman. The same as yesterday, the Countess.

"You look much better than yesterday. Very pretty indeed," she said. "I like your funny hat," she added. She walked past him, passing her scarf to him. "I'm here to see the younger Holmes."

John went over to the wall and rang one of the four bells. Each sounded different, according to Lord Holmes, and each person in the Holmes family came at the sound of their own bell.

Sherlock responded to his bell more quickly than John expected, appearing not five seconds later. He vaguely remembered Greg mentioning 'super speed'.

He looked annoyed. "A hundred and twenty five years later and you're still harassing me?" he asked tiredly.

_A hundred and twenty five years?_ He thought back to Greg again. Immortality, he'd said. Damn, how old _were_ they? Sherlock didn't look older than twenty-five, but obviously that meant nothing, if he was at least a hundred and twenty five years old.

"Because there was a time when you were fond of me."

"You're delusional, Ms Adler," said Sherlock.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I should choose someone new." She looked around dramatically, then her eyes landed on John and she pretended to be surprised. "I don't think we've been formally introduced. Hello, my name's Countess Irene Adler. And you are?"

John knew he was supposed to do whatever the guest wanted if he wanted to not be dead. So he played along and held out a hand to shake hers, which was already extended. "John Watson," he replied.

Her eyes widened and a huge grin spread across her face like Christmas had come early. "John Watson!" she cried. She looked up to Sherlock. "John Watson," she repeated to him significantly, almost like a question.

"Really, _what_ is with my name?" John asked irritably.

"Irene, you need to leave," said Sherlock pointedly.

"But, John, my dearest creature, you should know—" she began.

In a flash of colours and a quick shifting of the air around them, Sherlock moved like lightning and was suddenly right in front of the Countess.

"You need to leave. _Now_."

She put her hands up in surrender, still smirking. "Fine, fine. But you'll have to tell him sometime." And she went out the door.

John didn't have enough time to ask for an explanation again before Sherlock disappeared in a flash.

* * *

Several more people came to call. They were rude, and they were unpleasant, and they referred to John as an 'it', but it still wasn't _horrible_. All the rest came to talk to Lord Holmes. One came for the Earl, but John rang the bell and waited ten minutes, and the vamp lady got extremely impatient and threatened to eat John, so John rang for Lord Holmes instead, who profusely apologised to the woman for his father's rudeness, saying it was not John's fault when she insisted on his punishment. She decided she agreed and John was not whipped that day.

It had been a long time—John was hoping it was nearly time to sleep—when another came. He was a tall, muscular man who gave off a different feel than the vampires that came to call. John got the feeling he was something else entirely.

"Welcome to Holmes Manor. State your business."

"The Countess asked for me," hissed the man. It didn't sound human, and when his mouth opened, he had a row of sharp teeth. _Definitely not a vampire_, John decided.

John was going over to the bells when a strong arm grabbed at his wrist and tugged him back, standing close enough that John could smell his putrid breath.

"I didn't give you permission to look away from me, scum."

"I apologise, sir," said John, his voice strong and clear and his stance unyielding, but not rebellious.

The man glared. "You're a pretty one, aren't you?" he mused with a smirk and an up-and-down quite similar to the one Vercon had given him way back in Virginia. "Well, while we wait," he said, winding an arm around the small of John's back. John was close to demanding him to get off, but realised that'd get him killed. How did he stop this without dying from it?

He was pressed hard against the huge man, and there was a hard lump against his belly. Oh god. That wasn't—oh _god_, he was going to hurl.

He was pressed up against the wall, and about ready to attack whether it killed him or not, when came the voice he would never be so glad to hear again. "Enough, Jarq," said Lord Holmes. "He is not for your sexual pleasure. And I hear your fucking often leads to death in humans."

"Guilty," said Jarq, backing up.

And they went about their business, and Jarq called on the Countess, and John just stood in the corner, feeling shocked and a little scared. He might have gotten raped, had Lord Holmes not come in. Was that common? Was that what happened to the last doorman? Was that why Sherlock Holmes knew John wouldn't like this job?

After he left, Lord Holmes approached John. "That was a demon lord, Jarq, of the outer districts. Not a favourite of mine either, truth be told." He paused. "Has that shaped your opinion on which job you would prefer?"

John heard a whisper of air that indicated that Sherlock had entered again, back at the top of the stairs, to hear the conversation.

To be killed by a random demon or be killed by Sherlock, who was so oddly captivated by him?

"I think I'd prefer to work for Mr Holmes," said John quietly.

After a moment, Lord Holmes nodded. "Very well. I'll assign someone else to door duty. You'll start with my brother tomorrow."

He walked away again, and Sherlock was at the top of the stairs.

"You knew that would happen," John accused.

"Something like it, yes," Sherlock replied. "It's common."

He looked down at the ground, rubbing at his arms, as if it had gotten cold.

"You're shaken," said Sherlock.

John looked up, but he was no longer at the top of the stairs. He was sitting on the couch, lounging like he'd been there for ages.

"Like you care," John muttered. "I'm just a _human_."

Sherlock smirked. "I don't find humans all that repulsive," he said. "In fact, they're mildly intriguing."

John looked up. "You think so?"

"Plus," Sherlock added as if John hadn't spoken, "I was a human at one point, with somewhat-human sentimentalities. I even had a friend I was quite fond of, who I was still friends with even after my transformation, for a time."

"And your transformation was…" John prompted.

In a flash, Sherlock was back at the top of the stairs, and John tried to follow the movement, but his brain seemed incapable of comprehending it.

"Oh no, I don't think I'll start my life story today. Maybe if you survive the week."

"And you'll tell me what's special about my name?" asked John.

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "_If_ you survive the week," he repeated.

And then he was gone too, leaving John to wonder how big of a mistake he'd just made.


	4. Story Telling

John only realised when he woke up the next morning that he didn't know where he was supposed to go. He decided to go out to the entry hall like he had the day before, and just hoped that Sherlock would eventually wonder where he was and come find him.

He underestimated Sherlock, however, as Mr Holmes himself was standing in the entry hall waiting for him.

"Follow me," he said, and turned on his heel and went up the stairs. John followed behind, having to half-jog to keep up with Sherlock's long legs. They walk into the back of the house and then go up a tight winding staircase in a round room made of the same pale stone as outside… John realised that Sherlock lived at the top of a tower in the back of the castle. Somehow, that fit.

Instead of reaching the top of the stairs and getting to an ordinary door, the stairs ran right into the ceiling.

"What the hell?" John barely had time to mutter before Sherlock touched the stone and a seam appeared, like someone was cutting it with an invisible knife, and the seam made a square. And then the stone inside the square melted away.

Before John could ask, Sherlock said, "the doors to all the bedrooms only respond to the touch of the owner, so only someone the owner has allowed to enter may come in. It's something you get when you have kitsune help in building your manor. So nobody goes in here, not even my brother. He hates it."

They went up the rest of the stairs and John was met with a room where the first thing that even flitted through his mind was, _god, what a mess._ There was a bed and a desk, he could tell, but he could hardly see them under all the _shit_ everywhere. Stacks of papers, piles of weapons, items he couldn't even begin to guess the function of… He officially regretted taking the job. Cleaning this would be miserable.

Sherlock turned around quickly, stopping so fast John almost ran into him. Sherlock continued to stand far too close, like he had absolutely no understanding of personal space, and John couldn't back up because the stairs were directly behind him.

"You look frightened," said Sherlock with a smile, evilly entertained.

"I'm not," John insisted.

Sherlock smirked. "You're so agreeable around Mycroft. What is it about me that brings out your aggression?"

John actually didn't know the answer to that. Maybe because he was mildly fascinated with Sherlock and it made him angry.

Sherlock didn't give him time to think of a response. "That brings me to the rules of my chambers. The first rule is that you shall never call my brother anything but 'Mycroft' in here. I don't want to hear any 'lords'. I don't respect him enough for that."

John actually smiled a little at that rule, but then bit it back. He wouldn't mind calling the _Lord_ by his name behind his back. "Agreed," said John.

"The next rule is that you will refrain from being boring or annoying."

John raised an eyebrow. "I don't know what things annoy and bore you."

"I'll let you know as you do them."

John rolled his eyes. "Fine, okay. What else?"

"The last rule, which is even more important than the others, is that you will never, _ever_, try to clean _anything_. You are not to touch anything unless explicitly instructed to do so, and it's doubtful I'll ever tell you to touch something."

John first felt relieved. He wasn't expected to clean this disaster.

But then he was confused.

"If you don't want me to clean, then what do you need me for?"

"You will join me when I leave the house for cases, and you will be a second opinion when I desire one. And, with any luck, you'll be entertaining to me."

John was officially lost. Cases? A second opinion on _what_?

John was trying to think of a way that he could ask what the hell he meant without sounding completely stupid. so he asked, "What exactly do you _do_?"

"And by that you mean what are my cases?" he asked, a little amused. "I solve mysteries around the City, or in the slums, or anywhere, really. It is the only thing that keeps my brain from rotting in the monotony of this aristocratic lifestyle."

"So… you want me to solve mysteries with you?"

"Essentially."

John decided this might not be so bad after all.

* * *

John learned a lot about Sherlock Holmes just from watching him.

Seven, specifically.

One, he hadn't been out in the real world for a _long_ time, because his knowledge of electricity hardly even contained the light bulb. In fact, John still had his mobile phone in his pocket, which he only realised the fourth night in the castle when he felt it under his thigh when trying to sleep. He didn't have service, of course, but when he saw Sherlock next, he showed it to him to display modern technology, and Sherlock was ecstatic about it, stating that this would alleviate his boredom for hours.

Two, he was _obsessed_ with mystery and forensics. He had a bookshelf dedicated to what he called "sensation novels", all published between 1860 and 1870. John figured they were the first "mystery" books, from the looks of them. The age of all his books further proved how long he'd been in the Dark Dimension. And past the books that he'd read over and over, even though he disdained most reading, he was always solving one mystery or crime or another, either from the privacy of his room or out in town.

Three, Sherlock had an uncanny ability of deduction. He could look at anything or anyone and guess amazing things about it. John thought it was bullshit, originally, but Sherlock proved right enough times by now that John believed it, and he eagerly awaited the next time Sherlock would deduce something. It was really astounding to watch. Sherlock Holmes was a genius, there was no other way of putting it.

Four, because of his tendency to read people who didn't want to be read, most people didn't like him. People threatened to rip him to pieces every time they went outside, but none of them could because of who his family was. And sometimes, they'd threaten to kill his slave instead, but Sherlock then became almost flatteringly protective, stating that nobody was to touch him unless they wanted to experience a very slow and painful demise. So, Sherlock was right in saying that there was a possibility that John might not survive a week, but John was so far still alive, which was mostly due to Sherlock himself.

Five, _everything_ bored him. People were boring, because he knew everything about them in a moment. Books bored him because he could guess the ending. Sleeping bored him because it made it hard to think. Eating bored him for the same reason. Breathing bored him because everyone did it constantly, and anything that everyone does all the time must be dull.

Six, anything that bored him also annoyed him, because nothing was more annoying than being bored.

And seventh and last thing, the most peculiar of any of it… somehow, of all the things in the world, John didn't bore or annoy Sherlock Holmes. At least not frequently. And John actually _enjoyed_ working for him.

It was very strange indeed, that last set of facts. Because, in spite of what both thought of the other originally… they were quickly growing rather fond of one another.

* * *

John woke up in the morning before the bell, and walked through the vacant castle, noticing that it was rather eerie when it was this dark. He had finally memorised how to get to Sherlock's room, and he wanted to get the chance to make sure he knew it. See, Sherlock was always waiting for him in the entry hall when he woke up, immediately ready to talk about whatever experiment he was currently working on, but John wanted to prove he could get there on his own. The only way to do that was to wake before Sherlock was there to meet him. John wasn't sure how much earlier he'd gotten up, however, since he didn't have the privilege of knowing the time. He just knew the bell hadn't wrung yet.

There was another reason he'd woken so early too, however…

He got up to the top of the stairs, about to knock, but then he began wondering whether Sherlock might be asleep. That hadn't crossed his mind.

He was conflicted for just long enough that the stone above his head dissolved away, displaying an amused Sherlock.

"You're just a tad early, John," he said. "Seeing as it's the middle of the night."

"I survived the week," said John. "Time for you to tell me that life story you promised."

He smirked. "I don't think I actually promised," replied Sherlock, walking out of view. John took this as an invitation to enter.

"Maybe not, but I'd like it if you'd tell me."

Sherlock looked back at him, and John gave what he hoped was a charming smile.

And it must have been, because Sherlock sighed and said, "Sit down then. It's a long story."

"Seeing that you're at least a hundred and twenty five, I'd say so," John replied, finding an empty spot on the bed and sitting down, leaning his back against the headboard. Sherlock stood at the end of the bed.

"If it makes you feel better, that really is quite close to my actual age. I am one hundred and fifty three, but I was turned into a vampire in 1889, so I've been this way for a hundred and twenty four years."

"And you were turned when you were twenty nine?"

Sherlock nodded. John was surprised by this. He looked younger, about John's age—who was eighteen. Then again, it was hard to place an age on him at all, because he had the flawlessness of youth, but the keen eyes of someone who's ancient.

"I lived in London with a roommate, a military man, and I solved crime the way I do now with him at my side. I think I was different then. More excitable, more relatable. And I was quite addicted to cocaine, though I didn't think so at the time. My companion did not like that in me, and he tried to make me stop. But when I was turned, the drugs stopped having effect and I stopped anyway." His eyes looked far off, like he was really deep into the past mentally and was just speaking it all out loud without thinking about it. "There was a new villain called Professor James Moriarty that had caught my attention, like many villains do. But this one was different, because I had never seen his face. He corresponded with me through letters, sending the first one because he was tired of me solving his crimes, and he was the one man I could never find. He threatened that I must stop solving his crimes or I would deeply regret it. He said he would 'burn me'. I refused… and within a week, I woke in the night in horrible pain, a wound in my neck… and I had been turned. I was contacted by Mycroft, who said the same had happened to he and our parents and now we were a family of vampires. I know not if Moriarty himself was a vampire or if he hired someone to change us, but I was more determined than ever to find him… until Mycroft told me I was to come with him on a trip. I did so grudgingly… but it turned out to all be a trap. He dosed me with vervain, a herb that renders vampires unconscious… and I awoke here. He moved our family here. I am certain it was father's idea also, but Mycroft has always been more proactive about such things. The two of them quickly worked to make us an influential family in the City… and here we are."

"You aren't cross he brought you here?"

"I was for a long time. I missed my world, and I missed my only friend. But I got used to this world, and understood the move. And it is rather interesting here anyhow."

"Is it rude of me to be surprised you had a friend?"

Sherlock smiled a little. "No. It surprised me too, way back then."

John remembered something. "You were going to tell me why my name mattered to you."

"Oddly enough, it relates quite closely to the story I just told."

John raised a brow in curiosity.

"My friend, the man I lived with at 221B Baker Street in London, he had just come back from the Afghan war. He had been shot in the shoulder, and thus left service early at the ripe age of twenty in 1880, and he needed a flat mate. A man named Stamford introduced us, because we both expressed needing a flat mate and were the same age, and we moved in together. It was tense, originally, but then came the case that started it all. A Study in Scarlett, as he called it in a brochure later on. I had solved cases before, but not with him at my side. And for nine years before I turned, and five more after, we solved cases, and we were friends. We did not always see eye to eye, but under it all, we were attached to one another in a way others couldn't understand. I'd never felt such comradery before, and I was glad to know him." Sherlock paused then.

"What does this have to do with my name?" John asked quietly, almost not wanting to interrupt because he was so enthralled with the story. Sherlock having a friend like that seemed so strange, after knowing him for a week, because he seemed incapable of friendship in some ways.

Sherlock met his eyes, so pale in that moment that they almost looked white, but for the blue rim round the outside.

"My companion's name was John Watson."

John stared at him silently, not knowing what to say.

"I thought it a coincidence, originally. After all, that was a hundred years ago. He's long since dead. And you look very little like him. Watson had this huge mustache… But I saw quickly that you act similar to him in many ways. I can't help but wonder if you are his great great grandson or something of the sort…"

"I don't know of an ancestor named John Watson," said John, "but my father never talked about his family other than that they were all in the military too, so that part fits."

"For a mad moment," Sherlock continued, "I thought maybe you were a reincarnation of him or something. But no, you're different from him in some ways."

"So that's why you reacted the way you did when you heard my name, and why you asked me if I was in the military. But what about Countess Adler?"

"She'd met Watson, long ago, for I met her during a case. Mycroft met Watson as well, but he must not remember anymore, or else is pretending he doesn't remember, as Mycroft does things like that at times."

It was quiet for a while. Then, "So," said John, "am I an acceptable replacement for this Watson fellow?"

Sherlock smirked. "Yes, I suppose you'll do."

* * *

**Note: I'm aware that what I mentioned from the books is not all canon. That is for the purpose of my story. Don't hate me for it. Plus, I figure not all of you have read the books, so those of you probably don't even care, so ignore me. **

**Oh, and please review if you love me. Or if you hate me. Or are pretty indifferent to my existence. Either way, I'd like to hear from the readers! : ]**


	5. Friends, More or Less

John was sleeping when he heard the noise, and jumped up in the sheets, startled.

"PSSSSSST!"

"Wh—wha?" John asked in a gargled voice. Then his eyes focused in on the figure just outside the bars, which was just a blacker silhouette in the dark room, eyes reflecting off of the minimal light from a candle down the hall like a cat. "Sherlock, it's the middle of the night," John grumbled.

"Very true," came Sherlock's voice, though John still couldn't see him other than an outline and the floating reflective discs of his eyes, "which if I recall is what you did to me just last night."

"Right, and I felt bad about the time and was going to leave, but you knew I was there somehow and opened the door without me even having to knock. You, on the other hand, just wake me up. Quite rudely, at that."

"Yes. Because I own you."

"Technically, I think Mycroft owns me. He bought me."

"And gave you to me as a gift."

"More as a favour. Reluctantly."

"John…" Sherlock said warningly.

He rolled his eyes. "What do you want, The Honourable Sherlock Holmes?" he asked mockingly.

"I'm bored," Sherlock replied, his voice sounding like a complaining child. "There's no case to work on, no books to read, nothing at _all_ to do!"

"Then why don't you sleep?"

"Sleep. God, what have I told you about being dull, John?"

"Well what do you want me to do about it?" John retorted.

"That's your job."

"I think a servant is better if it can't think for itself and only does what the master says, don't you?"

"You know, you're really lucky I don't feel the need to punish you."

"You like me the way I am," said John with a smile.

"It _does_ alleviate boredom," he agreed.

"But Sherlock, really, I need some rest. I promise I'll be entertaining in the morning, okay?"

Sherlock was silent, and John could almost see his annoyed face. "Oh, _fine_. See you in a few hours."

And without a sound, he was gone.

Immediately, the "sleeping" figures on either side of him jumped up. Speech came from both sides at the same time (Mary had taken Greg's cell once Greg moved to his new room, and her old cell was replaced by a girl named Anthea who ever talked. The only time she did was when she first arrived, when she asked Mycroft, "Wait, what do you mean we can't have mobile phones?").

From Mary came, "You just called him 'Mycroft'. He'd kill you for that."

And from Molly came, "You speak to Mr Holmes so disrespectfully all the time?"

"Working for Sherlock is different than you might think. One of his rules is that he hates titles, especially used in relation to his brother. And another is never to be boring, and my way of not boring him is to be an ass sometimes."

"So… he likes when you're rude?" Molly asked.

"To a point, yeah," John replied.

"Strange…"

"Sherlock is strange," John agreed. "But working for him is actually rather… fun."

"You're crazy," concluded Mary, and just like that, they were both asleep again.

* * *

The bell rang and he popped out of bed, getting used to the sleeping schedule quickly.

But then when he sat up, there was Sherlock, standing by the candle that magically lights itself when the bell to wake up rings.

"Sherlock?" John asked, as if he couldn't see him right in front of him.

"I'm still bored," he said.

John sighed and stood, stretching. He looked down at himself and noticed he was so dirty that he looked three shades darker than he really was. He still had no shirt and just walked around in his shredded denim shorts. Nobody cared because many slaves were dressed just the same. He was absently rubbing the metal bands that were always on his wrists, one of the things he didn't think he'd ever get used to because they were so completely uncomfortable. They were constantly painful, and he imagined the skin beneath wasn't very pretty if he were able to see it. "Then we should go out somewhere today," he said to Sherlock.

"There are no cases to solve."

John smiled and rolled his eyes. "There's more to do outside than solve cases."

"Like what, watch a slave get tortured? You forget, John, this isn't your world."

"There's got to be more to this world than _that_," John insisted.

"Maybe," Sherlock said, and they began to walk, already being left far behind by the other slaves that couldn't be late. John really was kind of lucky to get Sherlock as his master.

"So, I was thinking last night," said John.

"Sounds dangerous."

"Shut it," John muttered. "I was thinking about this man you were friends with, Watson." John was glad Sherlock had just called him 'Watson', because it put more separation between himself and this old friend of Sherlock's that was strangely like him.

"What about him?"

"I just… I don't want you to get angry with me. Promise not to whip me."

Sherlock gave a small chuckle. "No torture for you today, I swear to it."

John was quiet for a moment as he tried to think of how to phrase it. "Well… it's just that the way you spoke about him… I wondered if you were just friends."

Sherlock looked over to him in surprise. "John, I don't think it crossed someone's mind to love someone of the same gender back then. It was so taboo that it hardly even existed, at least in a social context. So yes, he was only a friend."

"Okay, sure, back then. But when you look back on him—"

"I suddenly feel you're just finding a round-about way to ask me if I'm gay."

"Well—"

"Do I seem gay to you?" asked Sherlock, sounding entertained.

"Well—" John tried again, but again was interrupted.

"There's no need to mince words with me. Just come out with it."

"Fine, _fine_. Are you gay? Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine."

John just was quiet, waiting for his answer.

"To tell the truth, I've never really thought about it," he finally said. "All that matters to me is the work. I've never wasted my time on a lover."

"But what if you find one and you can't ignore how you feel?"

Sherlock looked over to him with a little smile. "Do you suppose anyone is going to fall in love with me any time soon?"

"Why not?" John retorted. "If someone took the time to get to know you, maybe they would."

Sherlock looked at him more closely now. They were in the winding staircase that led to his room, and he was silent as he looked at John like he'd just realised something about him.

"I'd ask you the same question you asked me, but I already know the answer," said Sherlock, opening the door and walking up into his room.

"Oh, am I just the type of guy that screams 'straight'?" asked John.

Sherlock looked back at him. "No. Not at all," he replied.

John raised an eyebrow. Really? He always thought he was.

"Okay, then how do you know? Come on, you love explaining your logic."

Sherlock kept looking amused, like John was missing something. "I think I'll let you figure through my logic yourself." Before John could complain, Sherlock added, "You've done a good job of being interesting so far. Keep going."

"Sherlock, I honestly don't know how to be interesting. I just do it without trying."

"Precisely. So just be yourself some more."

"Myself?"

"Tell me about you. Things I couldn't guess from looking. Most of your clothes are gone, after all, so there's nothing to read there. You must play some sort of sport, considering your muscle mass."

"Rugby."

"Yes, that was around when I was in London. And you have family you care about, but that does not consist of your father, who was obviously militant and left your family a long time ago. At least five years, possibly a decade ago."

"Right, as usual."

"But it's not just your mother in the picture. There's a sibling."

"How do you know that?"

"You talk about your family in terms of 'they', and if your father is out of the picture, then there must be someone else other than just a single parent. I assume it's a sibling rather than an extended relative only because it's more likely."

"Spot on, as always."

"It's hard to guess how many siblings, or what gender they are, because I have very little context, but I'm guessing you have just one sibling, since you don't act like someone from a large family, and that the one sibling is a girl."

"And why's that?"

"Because you act as if you're used to being the man of the family, and that kind of feeling arises in men more often when the rest of their family are women, or else if the males in the family are much younger, but I feel you have a complex enough bond with this sibling that they must be old enough to share such a bond. And thus, a sister. Maybe an older one, actually."

"What the hell am I supposed to tell you if you can guess at all of it?"

But Sherlock was on a roll now. "You are naturally protective of this family of yours, and I can easily say you were taught to be this way by your belligerent father. Your father's militant nature was of course made apparent from your own words last week, in the fact that you called him a 'military man', but there is more to it than that. You have obviously lived in a free society all your life, and never considered slavery even a plausible part of said society, but still you have been thrust into a world where slavery is quite real and you have grasped onto it more readily than another person might. This implies that you have had experience, though informal, with serving someone that would hurt you if you did not to it the way you should have. The only person I can assume would do that would be your father. And so, your abusive father has both taught you how to serve, but also how to rebel."

John averted his gaze, shamed and shocked and hurt at the words he'd just heard. Even his closest friends didn't know the true extent of his home life before his father was kicked out by his mother and John never had to see him again. John did his very best to talk about his father like he'd left, and that the whole thing had little effect on him. Not a single person had ever seen though it—or if they did, they pretended not to notice the truth, because they must have known John didn't want to talk about it. But Sherlock saw it all, and then spat it back in John's shocked face.

Subconsciously, John stood up straighter. "I wondered if it was possible if I could go get a meal for myself, sir?" asked John formally, looking ahead to avoid looking at Sherlock.

"I've upset you," said Sherlock, and for once he didn't sound amused.

"No, you haven't, I'm just a human, and that means I have to eat," John lied in reply.

"I just don't understand your reaction."

"What reaction? I'm only hungry." John said it more defensively than he intended.

"I was only telling the truth. How should that be upsetting?"

And John snapped. "Because the truth is upsetting, Sherlock! Especially truths that people spend their entire lives trying to ignore just to have someone who hardly knows them, that _owns_ them, talk about it like it's entertainment! My dad beating me, beating my sister and my mother, isn't for you to amuse yourself with!"

John didn't wait for permission. He stamped on the part of the ground that dissolved away into the stairway passage when touched and went down the steps, heading for the kitchen. Usually, the master told the slave when they were allowed to go to eat, but Sherlock said he just had to ask. But John decided 'sod asking' for this case, because he sure as hell wasn't going to get emotional in front of Sherlock. He kept his fists clenched hard, his jaw locked tight, to keep himself from crying. _Stupid, stupid John_, he kept thinking. _You're not going to _cry_ over this. The last time you cried over this was when he smashed your hand in the door_. He looked down at his left hand, where two of the fingers never quite looked right anymore, even ten years later. It was obvious that it had once been broken severely, but nobody noticed.

Surely Sherlock would have noticed, and it would have only reinforced his theory.

"John, wait!"

Oh, John had really hoped he wouldn't follow. But, of course, he did, and John couldn't really disobey him. He didn't put Sherlock past punishing him if he got too far out of line.

So John turned and found himself naturally standing at attention. His jaw was still shut so tight it was starting to ache.

Sherlock was looking down at him, his face as blank as it usually was, giving no hints as to what he was thinking. But his eyes skimmed all over John, probably reading everything he was feeling in the way he was standing, his formality and his embarrassment and his fury.

Sherlock tentatively took another step forward, and John inadvertently took a step back. Then the unhappiness flitted through Sherlock's features, if only for a moment, at John's inability to stand close to him.

"My intention was not to hurt you. I didn't even consider that I would hurt you by saying that."

_No, of course you didn't_, thought John. _Because human emotions make no sense to you. Because people's feelings don't matter to you_. But instead, he said, "Does this mean I'm not permitted to eat?"

John only got to see the anger that went through Sherlock's face for a moment before John found himself against the wall, Sherlock pressed up against him, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"I said I was sorry. What else do you expect from me?" he hissed, and John witnessed for the first time the part of Sherlock that was not human.

John did a good job pretending not to be momentarily petrified, and kept his face mostly blank—though his anger was clearly visible, he was sure.

"I don't expect anything," John replied.

"Yes you do."

"No. It's pointless to expect anything from you. You just don't get it, and that's fine. I'm not here to be your friend, to replace Watson. I'm here to be your slave."

Sherlock took his hands off of John, but still had his body far, far too close, keeping him pressed against the wall. "No, John. If you were here to be my slave, you'd be cleaning my chambers and be feeding me some of your blood twice a week. I have you here to be my companion."

John was left in surprised silence by the response. He never considered it that way.

"I never bothered with the other slaves," Sherlock continued. "Mycroft forced those ones on me, more there to make sure I stayed out of trouble than anything else. But when I saw you, the new John Watson, I decided you could be the one to help me get _into_ trouble. That maybe you could fill the… the emptiness in me since I lost him. But, as you might realise, I haven't had any sort of companion in more than a century. I don't know what it means to have a friend, and honestly I probably didn't even know it back then. I was fueled by the work. So you must bear with me and my inability to empathise with others."

"So… let me get this straight. You… want me to be friends with you?"

"If that's possible," replied Sherlock, looking a little timid.

John found himself—as he often did with people, no matter how unsympathetic they were—empathising with Sherlock. He'd been alone so long that there was no way for him to know what you could voice to people and what things were better left unsaid.

And somehow, inexplicably, he was a little flattered that someone like Sherlock, mysterious and powerful and intelligent beyond compare, wanted to be his friend. Had sought him out, beyond all others, to be his companion.

John was about to say something—that maybe he'd overreacted, that it was okay—when Sherlock spoke.

"Those hurt," he said.

John didn't understand what he meant, at first, but then realised he was absently rubbing at his wrists like he often did.

"Oh… erm, no, they're okay," he lied.

Sherlock held his hands out, as if asking to see them. John looked up at him apprehensively, but then put his wrists in his open hands hesitantly. The moment Sherlock touched them, they opened with a _click_, revealing the unsightly, oozing, bleeding sores beneath. John hadn't realised they looked so bad, actually. He watched Sherlock's face as he looked down at them, who actually looked openly appalled by it.

"This could get badly infected," Sherlock said.

"Well I haven't properly bathed in a while, so is it surprising?"

"Why didn't you ask?"

"I didn't know if slaves had the right."

Sherlock looked up, and he looked just the slightest bit sad.

But a moment later, John was shocked because as he watched, Sherlock lifted his own wrist up to his lips, and then the long vampiric teeth appeared for a moment before they sunk into his own skin.

"Sherlock, what're you doing?" he asked frantically, going to grab at his master's hand, to pull it away.

Sherlock's wrist moved from his lips, which now had a drop of blood hanging from them, which he slurped up. And he held the wrist out to John. "Here," he said.

John was about to ask what he meant, but then remembered. Vampire blood heals humans.

He looked at the wound, which was starting to drip onto the floor. Sherlock seemed unconcerned by this.

"Am I supposed to… drink it?"

Sherlock nodded and held it closer.

"Can't wait much longer, John, it'll heal itself soon."

John kept looking between the gushing wound and Sherlock's intense eyes. And then, before he had time to decide it was a bad idea, he took the wrist and put his mouth to it.

John never could have guessed what it would feel like. It didn't taste like blood, the way he thought it should. It was just hot—and, yes, slightly metallic—but it was rich and bitter, but bitter the way a very dry wine is. And his body felt better with each moment, healing his wrists, but also healing hurts he hadn't realised he had, aching muscles from uncomfortable beds and heavy-lifting for Sherlock.

It felt too good to stop. With the first lap of it, he was healed, but he found himself sucking it out, warmth spreading through his body, and then heat, and it felt so pleasurable he didn't know how he could even describe it to someone.

The moment was only a few seconds, but it stretched on because of the pure sensation of it.

And then after those few seconds, Sherlock let out a very quiet groan. John was shocked by it, and looked up at Sherlock without moving his lips. His eyes were closed and his head leaned back, his lips parted. It felt good for him too. More than good, John would say. That was the face of sexual arousal.

And strangely enough, John didn't even mind. He felt too good to mind. So he kept on sucking, and it was another glorious five seconds before Sherlock said, "John."

John ignored him.

"John, I'll open your vein right here if you don't stop."

John looked up with wide eyes, disengaging his mouth from the wound and wiping at the blood he knew was all over his mouth.

Sherlock was breathing hard, his eyes dilated, and John was sure he looked basically the same.

"It's… it's hard to control myself, when I feel that way," said Sherlock breathily. He took a monogramed handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to John, who took it but let it hang at his side. John was just looking up at him more, surprised at both of them, at how good that had felt.

John shook himself out of his thoughts and used the produced handkerchief to wipe away the excess blood from his face. Then he said, "You said once that a human getting their blood taken by a vampire voluntarily feels pleasurable." Sherlock nodded. "And if a human drinking from a vampire feels like _that_… then what's it feel like to do them both at the same time?"

Sherlock gave a chuckle. "Better than sex, supposedly. I've never been close enough to someone to try it."

"Is that… how vampires—"

"We can have sexual intercourse. But yes, blood sharing is intimate, even when it's only one person to the other. So when it's both… there's a sort of mind-meld that happens, and you can sometimes even hear each other's thoughts. I hear some vampires prefer it to sex, some like it _with_ their sex…"

"Wow," John muttered. "But wait," he added. "You knew what that would feel like, how intimate it was, and you still did it?"

"You were hurt," Sherlock replied.

John smiled a little. "Thank you."

"Not a problem," he said, picking up the shackles from the ground. "It's illegal not to wear them if you're human," he said, "but I can heal you with a drop or two when they start to bother you again."

"But why didn't you just do a drop or two just then instead of ripping open your bloody arm?"

"I was curious what it would feel like. For both of us."

John wasn't sure if he should feel violated or something, but he didn't. Sherlock, who was nearly incapable of even emotional intimacy, opened up physically for the first time for John. With John. He was just staring at Sherlock like he'd never really seen him before.

"Let's get you some food," Sherlock said, breaking his reverie.

John nodded and they made their way to the kitchen.

"And after that, you're bathing. Trust me, you need it."

"Oh, sod you." But he said it with a smile as the two walked together through the manor, teasing playfully as they went.


	6. The Forgotten Case

**If you want to get the feeling I did when I was writing this, listen to the song Losing Your Memory by Ryan Star on repeat and read this chapter. I'm serious, the feel of that song was perfect. Specifically for later in the chapter…**

**Enjoy. ; ]**

* * *

Sherlock was always right there when John awoke in the morning, and he wasn't sure whether he should feel creeped out by it or something, but he really didn't mind.

And John really didn't mind the routine of working for Sherlock either. Now that he could bathe, and Sherlock healed his stupid sores with just a drop of his blood (even though John secretly longed for another proper sip, but he'd never say that aloud), and he even had some actual clothes, he felt more human. He wore an old-fashioned peasant shirt with some rather right navy blue leggings. They were uncomfortable, originally, because they hugged far too close and revealed too much of his body, but he got used to it. He still felt like Robin Hood, and a little silly, but seeing as he'd probably wear these clothes the rest of his life, he needed to get used to it.

"A case, John," he said the moment John woke.

"Where?"

"The Five slums."

John made a face. He wasn't a fan of visiting the slums. But at the same time, he was a little curious, because he'd never been anywhere but the Three slums, so maybe the Five slums wouldn't be so unpleasant. "Isn't that Countess Adler's domain?"

"Yes, and she's given me permission to enter."

Some of the Earls didn't like Sherlock solving crime in their sectors, but of course _she_ wouldn't mind, as she wanted to have insane kinky sex with him. And John wasn't even guessing, she'd literally said it before. Something about making him beg for mercy twice. Sherlock showed her no interest whatsoever, and John had no idea why that made him feel so smug.

John followed Sherlock to the front door, and when they got there, he took something out of his huge coat and handed it to John.

There was a coat, a white dress shirt, and a blue weird neck thing that all the guys wore here. Probably it had a name, but how should John know? All the clothes were at least a century old here.

"Is this for me?" he asked dumbly.

"Obviously."

"Why?"

"Because at first glance, they won't know you're a slave. You'll still have the shackles, but underneath your clothes."

"What good does that do?"

"Wouldn't you like to walk around like a free man?"

John smiled, impressed and surprised by the consideration on Sherlock's part, and he got dressed right in the front room. The whole 'privacy' thing kind of ended when he got sold as a slave, after all.

But he was buttoning his shirt when he noticed Sherlock staring at him.

"What?" he asked, a little self-conscious—which was silly, since he walked around half naked for weeks before getting clothes to wear.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied, and John tried to put on his stupid tie thing.

It wasn't working.

"Never put on a cravat?" Sherlock guessed.

"That's a stupid name," John muttered childishly, and Sherlock laughed at him. Well, didn't _literally_ laugh, but the look on his face was clear enough.

John then felt really stupid, because tying the cra-thing-a-muh-fuck was pretty much the same as tying a tie. He hadn't considered that.

Sherlock then handed him a bowler hat and John put it on his head.

"Do I look the part?" asked John with a grin.

"Oh, quite," said Sherlock. "But I think people might figure you out if you look like an excited toddler the whole time we're out."

John immediately wiped the smile from his face and stood up straight, chin in the air.

"What about now?" he asked.

"You're moronic," Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock!" Uh oh. That was the sound of angry-Mycroft. Indeed, he was walking into the room, looking at them both disapprovingly.

"Yes, dear brother?" he asked.

"Where're you going?"

"Sector Five for a nice, formal luncheon with Countess Adler to discuss taxes and torture and other political things," said Sherlock, and John had to bite his tongue to keep from smiling.

"Sherlock…" he warned.

"Oh, come on, Mycroft, you know where I'm going."

"I don't like when you do this. It's not proper."

He groaned. "Proper. _Boring_."

"And you know it's illegal to go out without your shackles, correct, John?" he asked.

John rolled up his coat and revealed his shackles. "I'm wearing them."

"Covered," Mycroft added with a glare.

"I'm only wearing what my master told me, Lord Holmes," said John, internally giggling like a child.

"You won't be keeping him attached to you by a chain?" asked Mycroft.

"He's not going to run away, Mycroft," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft looked between the two of them, his lips pursed and eyes narrowed.

"Fine. Go ahead. But if something goes badly wrong and you end up killing this one too, I swear, I'll skin you."

"Fair enough," Sherlock replied. "Come, John, let's go."

John gave Mycroft a tip of his hat before he followed Sherlock out the door.

"You think I'll be dying horribly today?" asked John.

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

John smiled. "I was wondering—"

"You, wondering. Every time you mention it, my brain aches for you."

John rolled his eyes and chuckled in spite of himself. "You're a dick."

"Duly noted. You were saying?"

"I was wondering if you tried so hard to keep those other slaves alive."

"Not really, no," Sherlock admitted.

"You know they were people too, don't you?"

Sherlock glanced over to John. "I'm not fond of you because you're a person. I'm fond of you because you're John."

"Because I remind you of Watson?"

"No. Because you're _John_."

John bit his lip to keep from smiling again, but he did anyhow.

"Hey, don't he look familiar?" asked a petrifyingly familiar voice. John would never forget it.

"Sherlock, that's the slaver who sold me to Mycroft," he breathed. "Vercon."

Sherlock looked up and looked at the two approaching men, but otherwise did not react to John's statement.

"You're the Brit we found in Virginia!"

"So he is," agreed the other man, who John still didn't know the name of.

"Brax. Vercon. How are you?" Sherlock asked, aloofness in his voice that was normally there when someone was going through formalities for no reason but that it was etiquette.

"You know it's illegal to have him without his shackles, don't you?" asked the one John now knew was named Brax.

"He's wearing them," said Sherlock, grabbing John's wrist and lifting it roughly, pushing back the sleeve. John understood the roughness to be only for show and thus wasn't offended by it. "I only wanted him to have something presentable to wear."

"And didn't want him bleeding on it, I suppose, since his wrists are as smooth as a baby's ass," added Vercon.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean," said Sherlock.

"I know what shackles do to the skin after some time, especially ones that tight. But his look just fine. You've been healing him."

"It's my business what I do with my slave, is it not?" Sherlock asked coldly.

"Yes, I suppose," Brax replied. "I only wonder why you'd do it."

"And I'm simply _fascinated_ by your curiosity. Now why don't you move out of my way? You're idiocy is making me itch."

The two looked at each other, translating a look John recognised from experience. "This guy is pissing me off, so I'm going to try to take it out on his slave since I can't take it out on him." John internally sighed. Not _again_.

"You're Lord Holmes' brother, right?" asked Brax.

"Indeed."

They looked at each other again, sharing the same look again, except with a "We really, really, _really_ can't take it out on him, so yeah, the slave will do."

"Your brother treats us with a bit more respect," said Vercon.

"Does he? Well, I'm quite happy for you. Everyone's got to get respect somewhere, after all."

Brax's lip twitched and Vercon cracked his knuckles seemingly subconsciously.

_Damn it, Sherlock_, thought John.

"You're real lucky you have Mycroft as a brother," said Vercon.

"Am I? I'd never considered that before."

"Yeah, or your guts would be all over that house there."

"Unlikely," Sherlock replied with a dry smile.

"Really?" Brax asked, and they both took a step forward.

_Sherlock, just keep your big mouth shut. _

"Oh, I very much believe I could beat both of you in a duel with both hands tied behind my back blindfolded."

"I'd love to test that theory," said Vercon.

"Sherlock, please—" John started, about to tell Sherlock to let it go, that they should just leave.

He never got to say that though.

A moment after he began to speak, he felt a _hard_ knock against the side of his face.

He was conscious just long enough to hear, "How dare you speak to your master in that…"

And then everything went black.

* * *

John opened his bleary eyes and thought he was dreaming for half a moment, because he was scaling a wall. A tower, to be precise.

He groaned.

"John?" asked Sherlock. "Are you alright?"

"Other than the fact that my face got hit with a train, sure," he muttered.

"It looks like it too," Sherlock replied.

"What're we doing on this wall?" He didn't consider how stupid the phrasing of that question was, as his head was pounding.

"Mycroft will be furious if he sees you like this. I'm taking us up to go through the window."

"You can climb… a tower…?" John was feeling queasy again.

Sherlock didn't bother to answer.

A few moments later, they went through the Gothic window and John was set down carefully on Sherlock's bed, which felt even softer than usual. He shut his eyes, feeling heavy, like he wanted to sleep.

"John, wake up," Sherlock commanded.

"I'm tired," he muttered.

"John, listen to me. You need to drink this." Sherlock pressed something to his lips, and it was wet and warm, but he felt much too tired to open his mouth. "_John_!" he said more urgently. It made him open his eyes and notice that the thing against his lips was Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock's icy eyes were burning. "I already told you, you're _not_ dying horribly today, so _DRINK_."

His vision was getting fuzzy again, going black, but he decided he better listen to Sherlock instead of sleeping. He opened his mouth and suckled at the open wound.

The effect was instantaneous. First, the pain got hideously worse, like a veil was being raised from his senses, and then it got better and better until it was gone. Then came the strength, and the comfortable warmth, and the searing heat, and the overwhelming need to drink more. He heard Sherlock's breathing increase, and felt his hand clamp to the side of John's face. This was when John was first aware of the fact that Sherlock was lying on top of him.

"John," he said weakly, and it was meant to be a warning, John knew, but it sounded more like a moan.

John's eyes opened at the sound, though, and Sherlock's eyes were shut tight, and his breathing was loud and shaky. His fangs were extended, and John wasn't even sure he cared.

"John," Sherlock said again, more insistently.

John took his mouth away from the wound only to tell Sherlock to just do it already, he didn't care, but the moment John released Sherlock's arm, Sherlock was across the room, standing against the wall and trying to catch his breath.

"You can't take more," Sherlock said quietly. "I haven't fed in a few days, I don't have enough to spare."

"Then take mine."

John said it before he realised he did, but he knew a moment later that he meant it. It seemed only fair.

Sherlock looked up to him with astonished eyes.

John held his own wrist out, as if in invitation.

"It's not like you don't drink from the slaves normally," said John.

"But… you and I know each other better. It'll be different."

"Are you afraid of intimate? Too late for that," John responded.

Sherlock kept on looking at him pensively. Then at his wrist. Deciding.

"I want you to," said John.

"Why?" asked Sherlock, honestly curious for once instead of teasing.

John considered this. "Because I like to make you happy."

Sherlock's eyebrow flicked up. "That's sentimental of you."

"You of all people should know I'm prone to being sentimental."

Sherlock was quiet for another moment, but then came across the room until he was in front of John.

John noticed that there was still blood on his lower lip from when he bit his wrist to give John the blood. In his urgency, he hadn't thought to wipe it away, and now he'd forgotten about it.

That blood that made John feel so good.

It was right there, on Sherlock's lip.

What happened next made perfect sense in John's mind in that moment. There was blood on Sherlock's lip. John liked that blood. He wanted it. So he lapped it up with his mouth.

Somehow, it didn't register in John's mind, in that manic moment, that removing a substance from a pair of lips with another pair of lips has a name. It's called kissing.

Once he was doing it, though, he realised. He froze against Sherlock's mouth, backing away slowly and looking up at Sherlock embarrassedly.

Sherlock looked surprised. His eyes were flicking all over John's face again, reading him. What he saw, John couldn't fathom.

"I… erm… sorry," was all John could think to say, because he was in the middle of a revelation himself.

Because all his mind was yelling at him was, "KISS HIM AGAIN."

And he wanted to. He really did. But Sherlock was his master, and John was a slave, and it just couldn't—

Right about there was when Sherlock lunged forward and pressed his lips to John's.

John couldn't bring himself to find it strange. Everything was different than before in this world. It was weirder to be kissing a vampire than to be kissing a boy, after all. Or kissing someone more than a hundred years older than you.

It was a strange world. No point dwelling on it.

So, without shame, he flung his arms around Sherlock, kissing him back. Probably Sherlock was ending up getting his own blood back in his mouth, since it was probably on John's face still, but neither of them cared.

They backed away, both of them breathing hard. But Sherlock's gaze averted, and John could tell where.

His neck.

"Sherlock, I mean it. Do it."

Sherlock met John's eyes once more, and John nodded.

Sherlock, tentatively, moved his face towards John's neck. John's heart rate increased.

"Don't tense up," Sherlock warned.

John forced himself to relax. Sherlock would never really hurt him.

The sting of pain was minor and only lasted a moment. After that, it was euphoria so intense that John could hardly believe it. Even better than drinking Sherlock's blood. He dug his fingers into Sherlock's back, screwing his eyes shut. Sherlock's arms were like iron around him as he enthusiastically sucked at John's open vein.

It ended too quickly, and John gave a moan of loss.

"John, I can't take too much. I already took more than I should have. You're going to be dizzy any moment now."

John was about to protest when he got very suddenly light headed, losing his balance. Luckily, his legs were against Sherlock's bed, so he just fell back onto it, shutting his eyes.

"Wow," he said aloud.

Sherlock was leaning over him, he could tell by the shadow that went over his lidded eyes. "You have enough of my blood in you that it's already healed," said Sherlock.

John couldn't help but be a little disappointed by that. He wanted more.

Then there was a cloth to his face as Sherlock wiped away the excess blood, which he also rubbed on the whole side of his face, which implied there was still some left from the injury he'd gotten in town. John had nearly forgotten about that. That blow had been completely worth it, in John's opinion.

John opened his eyes, and Sherlock's face was close as he finished wiping away the blood. Then he still stood over him, scanning John's face.

John lunged up and pressed his lips to Sherlock's again, but then got dizzy once more and put his head down.

They kept looking at each other silently.

Then John said, "Is it me, or did things just get much more complicated?"

Sherlock smirked. "Intense, sure. Complicated? Not really."

John raised an eyebrow. "No? Why not?"

"Because I've been expecting this for some time now."

"Have you?"

"I told you I knew whether you were gay or not. My logic was that I'd noticed the way you look at me."

John felt petulant at being read like that—especially considering he hadn't noticed the feelings himself until today. "I think you're just full of yourself," said John.

Sherlock smirked. "Sure," he said, standing up.

John sat up, not feeling so woozy this time.

"So what does this mean?" asked John.

Sherlock leaned down and pressed his lips to John's for a short moment.

"Only time will tell. How I _do_ love mysteries."


	7. Back Into The City

**For this chapter, I have listened to the request of Sendai, who (of many things) wanted to see the boys on a case. So here you go.**

* * *

The next morning when they sat in Sherlock's room, Sherlock in his chair and John on his bed, and John had a lot of questions after what had happened. Some of them having nothing to do with the two of them. He just fired them all at him in a row, not bothering with propriety any longer. A few of the questions were:

Q: How do vampires not get emotionally attached to the random people they drink from?

A: Other than the fact that most vampires don't have emotions to get attached with, the experience is much less intense if you have never fed them your own blood. For me personally, I'd never felt anything like that just from drinking from someone, even voluntarily.

Q: Why does the slave Mary have a scarf all the time to cover her wounds when the Earl could just heal her with his blood.

A: Remember, John, it becomes more intimate once you've given them your own blood, even if it's only a little bit of it. He doesn't want to risk that kind of bond with a slave, I'm sure.

Q: The more you drink, do you get closer?

A: The bond between the two will grow stronger the more you drink, yes. Usually that bond is all sensual, not romantic, unless you engage in two-way blood sharing, which is extremely intimate in both a sexual and romantic manner.

Q: And you had never given a human your blood before me?

A: No, never.

Q: Then why was I different?

That was about the time when the questions shifted towards the two of them, towards the kiss[es] that had happened only the day before.

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "You're full of questions today," he finally said.

"That's because there's a lot to question right now. Like where we stand."

"I told you yesterday, we'll just have to see."

"But you must know what you want."

Sherlock looked up to John to meet his eyes. "I think… I think that I've never felt anything like this before, and it's rather foreign to me. So no, I've really got no idea what I want."

John got an idea then. But he wasn't sure whether it was totally out of line to do it.

Then again, after yesterday, the amount of things that were considered 'out of line' must have dwindled.

He went for it.

"Well," John said, standing up and heading for the chair Sherlock was sitting in, "I could probably make up your mind for you," he suggested, straddling his lap. Sherlock looked somewhere between scared and shocked and nervous and John felt satisfaction at seeing him that way.

He inched his face closer to Sherlock's, as close as he could without their lips actually touching. Because he wanted it to be Sherlock's choice. He wouldn't lean in and initiate it, not if Sherlock wasn't sure.

He just was going to push the odds in his favour by being irresistible, and there's nothing wrong with that.

Sherlock pondered for an entire three seconds before catching John's lips with his own and wrapping his arms around John with bruising strength. Probably he didn't mean to squeeze so hard; vampires were just so much stronger than humans that he could hardly help it.

And that was right about when Sherlock made up his mind.

* * *

Things weren't actually that different between the pair of them. They still went on cases, they still teased each other mercilessly, they still made fun of Mycroft behind his back. But with all that, they'd steal kisses in hallways and John would nap in Sherlock's bed when Sherlock had nothing else for him to do, and Sherlock would just watch him, and John didn't find that weird. If anything, it was comforting. Nothing bad could happen with Sherlock watching.

And to them, it just didn't feel strange. Two males, one a vampire and one a human, born in different centuries, one a slave and one an aristocrat… there were so many reasons why a relationship between them shouldn't have worked, but none of it mattered to them.

As time progressed, the bond didn't lessen. No, instead, it changed and it grew.

Originally, it felt greatly sexual for the both of them. They would kiss or occasionally give the other their blood because it felt good. But over time, things changed. They would lie in bed together, just looking at each other. Sherlock admitted he'd listen to John's conversations anywhere in the manor just to hear his voice. John saw him all day, but still he wanted to see more of him, and he missed him the moment he went to bed at night.

One night, John was lying in bed, restless.

"Sherlock," he whispered, knowing he'd hear, even from so far away. "I miss you."

Less than ten seconds later, a gust of wind was the indication that Sherlock had arrived. John sat up, smiling, and walked over to the bars. It was too dark to see him, but Sherlock could surely see John.

"You're having trouble sleeping," Sherlock said.

"Oh, it's just the bed. I'll never get used to it."

Sherlock said nothing.

"Sherlock, I was wondering," he said, not pausing for long enough to Sherlock to tease him about it hurting to think again, "if you can hear me from down here, can't all the other vampires in the manor hear me too?"

"They _could_, if they cared enough. I only hear all the things you say because I'm listening for it specifically. None of the others have such a vested interest in you."

"Am I really that interesting?" asked John.

"Don't ask questions you know the answer to, John."

John grinned, but it faded away quickly. "I don't like that I have to sleep down here. Why can't I have an adjoining room with you like Greg does with Mycroft?"

It'd been a hypothetical question, really, but Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "There's no reason why you can't," he finally said. "It would fix your uncomfortable bed issue as well…" he added, "And my room is sound proof, so if we were up there all the time, there's no way anyone could overhear—I'll discuss it with Mycroft."

And just like that, Sherlock was gone.

* * *

John was set to move out of his dungeon in a week, and the other slaves in his sleeping area were unbelievably jealous, saying it took Greg _years_ to get up to that point with Lord Holmes.

"Mr Holmes just needs me around more often," John said with a shrug. "If you saw the mess that his room is, you'd understand why. I _still_ haven't gotten it clean." That was of course from lack of trying, but he wasn't going to mention that.

John was met by Sherlock in the morning, like always, saying that he should say his last goodbyes to the dungeons. John proceeded to flip off his bed, which made Sherlock chuckle, and follow him up to the tower.

The new room was added with kitsune magic, because there wasn't actually room in the tower for another room. Most of the manor was kept together with magic, however, since it looked a bit smaller on the outside—though it still looked huge, I assure you.

When they got to Sherlock's room, there was now a door at the far end. John tried not to think about that fact that, without magic, that would lead outside about twenty stories up.

He opened the door and found a room with a normal sized bed—as opposed to extra small like in the dungeons—lit with a gas lamp on the wall and with an end table that had a single rose from outside, one of the Black Magic roses John liked so much. He picked up the rose, avoiding the extra-sharp thorns they donned, and smelled it. The smell was heady, a great deal stronger than a normal rose. It was enough to make John feel relaxed and eager at the same time.

The room was simple, but John loved it.

"Sorry it's a bit small," said Sherlock.

"Oh, no, it's perfect, really," John said, setting the rose down and turning to Sherlock. "Plus, I don't expect I'll ever be sleeping in here."

"Oh really?"

"Probably not," John replied. "See, you have this huge bed, and it's really enough for five, let alone two."

"Are you suggesting I share? What if I don't like sharing?"

"I think you do," John replied, stepping closer and looking up at him with his lower lip between his teeth, and one eyebrow quirked up. It drove Sherlock crazy when he did that.

"You're trouble, you know that?" said Sherlock.

"I happen to know you like trouble."

Sherlock gave a mischievous grin before he invaded John's mouth with his tongue, pressing him against the doorframe. John grabbed at Sherlock as hard as he could, because Sherlock wasn't fragile in the slightest, so it wasn't like he was capable of hurting him. Sherlock probably was grabbing lightly himself, and it still was firm to John, which was somehow attractive to him. Somehow, the fact that Sherlock was so slight, but still ten time stronger than John could ever wish to be, was intriguing to him, especially since John had always been considered strong to other humans.

Sherlock pulled away far too quickly, and John was reading to complain when Sherlock spoke. "Wait," he said after a moment. "You're distracting me."

"Yeah, I like distracting you. So come back."

But Sherlock only rolled his eyes and said, "John, you remember the case we were going to deal with in the Five slums?"

"That was a month ago, at least. Isn't it solved?"

"No, that's exactly it. It's not solved. And that one killing has since turned into ten."

"_Ten_?"

Sherlock nodded. "The Countess called on me herself yesterday while you were eating lunch, begging me to come figure it out, because these are vampires getting killed, and she's worried it's a rogue slave."

"Then they probably deserved it," replied John.

Sherlock looked at him reproachfully.

"Oh, okay, fine, let's go check it out."

* * *

Sherlock had John put his nice clothes on again, since the whole thing with Vercon and Brax wasn't really caused by the clothes, but just the fact that they were arseholes.

They had to stop by Countess Adler's manor before going into the slums—out of respect for her authority, according to Sherlock. Not that Sherlock had an ounce of respect for anyone's authority, but he had to pretend to if he was going to get anything done in the City.

"God, I hate this red light," said John.

Sherlock glanced over to the sun, like he only just noticed it. "I've gotten used to it, I suppose," he said.

"Well you've had a hundred years to get used to it," said John. "I've had less than two months."

"Plus," Sherlock said, "the red sun makes life a lot easier for vampires."

"Whadayou mean?"

"Out on Earth, we burn up in the sunlight unless we have rings enchanted by a witch or a kitsune that have a lapis lazuli gemstone in them. But here, we can walk in the light without, you know, turning to ash."

John hadn't thought about that vampire stereotype, had never considered the sun was like this for a reason.

"Why doesn't this light burn you?"

"Nobody knows for sure, but I have assumed that it isn't that this sun is special, but that yours is. Supposedly 'God' made this realm for monsters and the other realm for humans, but he must have assumed the monsters would get out and threaten his favourite children. So he gave them a little bit of protection by making us unable to walk in the sun. But witches have gotten around that with the rings, of course."

"It surprises me that you believe in a God."

"I didn't used to, back when I was a human. But then I got turned into a beast from legend, and let's just say my outlook on life was broadened. I don't think it's this ever-present, loving God like some do, just some supernatural creator that made this world, maybe just so he could get credit for making something."

Just as he said that, they arrived outside the Adler Manor.

"Oh, my dearest creatures!" she cried when she opened the door. John could _not_ figure out why she kept calling them that, but it was fuckin' weird.

They stepped inside and the front room was shaped similarly to the Holmes manor, but the Adler manor still managed to look completely different. Her walls were dark red with black trims, and all the furniture gave John the distinct feeling you could comfortably have sex on it. Knowing what he did about Countess Adler, he assumed that was the point.

"It's good you're here. I've just gained word of another death, which gives you a fresh body to look at. But it can wait an hour for some lunch, right?"

Sherlock looked like he was suppressing the urge to sigh. "Ms Adler, we'd like to start working on the case immediately, as not to let the trail go colder than it likely already has."

"But, really, you're just trying to avoid having a chat."

"Of course not," Sherlock replied, but his tone was far too dry to be believable.

"You know, Sherlock, I'll have you someday."

"Have me?" asked Sherlock, and John thought he was joking at first, but then he realised Sherlock really didn't know what she meant.

John considered being quiet, but then just couldn't help saying, "Sex, Sherlock. She's talking about sex."

"Thank you, John," she said with a smirk.

"I knew that," said Sherlock defensively.

"Sure you did," John replied.

She looked between the two of them for a moment. "Maybe I'll have you both," she amended.

After that, Sherlock charmed her as quickly as he could manage into letting them leave, having to promise that they would 'stop by sometime'. He didn't specify when, luckily.

As they were walking out, John said, "Why the hell does she keep calling us 'dear creatures'?"

"I suspect she reads too much Jane Austen."

John had never read her work, himself, so he took Sherlock's word for it.

They walked through the slums and nobody there paid them a second glance. To them, Sherlock and John just looked like two vampire nobles walking through the streets. John was glad to walk around without someone trying to kick at him just because he was a slave and they could. He was sure that if anyone paid attention, a vampire would be able to smell that he was human, but there were enough human slaves walking around that his scent would just get jumbled with the rest, he figured.

John never got used to walking through the slums no matter how many times he did it, and he certainly didn't look forward to it. All the rest of the times he'd been in a slum, it'd been the Three slums, and John privately thought that Mycroft took better care of his slums than Countess Adler did of hers. His were bad enough, but this was even worse. Everyone looked tired and starving, even the vampires, who all had ashen skin and had huge purple bruises beneath their sunken, dead eyes. John found that the hungrier a vampire got, the more they looked like stereotypical vamps from movies and books on Earth.

But what John really could never come to terms with was how, in the slums, the worthlessness of humans in the eyes of the monsters was even more apparent than in the heart of the City. Because all the slaves were starving and bleeding and sick, but still being worked past their limit, and it wasn't uncommon to watch a vampire suck a human dry right there on the street and leave the body there for some human slave to clean up. Sure, they were starving, he knew that, and it wasn't that different from someone killing someone in a robbery to get food for themselves, but here there was absolutely no punishment for that behaviour. It would be the same as throwing away a book you don't want anymore. It's your business what you do with your own property. The only crimes that were considered "crimes" in the eyes of officials were committed against the monsters. Thus why they were here in the slums to solve a mystery. Ten—actually, now eleven—vampires had died in a month, and that was bad enough, but they suspected a _human_ had done it on top of that. And, you know, when a human kills someone, it's horrible, but when a vampire kills someone, who cares? It made John furious to think about.

And Sherlock could tell.

"You'd rather just let them keep killing the vampires," said Sherlock quietly.

John looked up to him to make sure he didn't look offended, but this was Sherlock we were talking about, so he was just stating a fact.

"Not really," John said. "I only wish they cared if humans died. I mean, if someone came and killed me right this second, and you wanted something done about it, nobody would care. I don't matter."

"Well, that's not entirely true," Sherlock said. "Something would be done about it. I'd take whoever did it and torture them slowly to the brink of death, and then kill everyone they ever loved while they watched, and only then would I put them out of their misery."

John gaped up at Sherlock. He wouldn't _really_ do something like that, right?

But the face said it all. He most certainly _would_ do that.

"No need to go killing people's families, Sherlock," John said.

"Why not? They did the same to me."

John wanted to continue telling Sherlock killing people's families was wrong, but Sherlock's implication that John _was_ his family left him too flattered to argue.

They finally arrived to the scene of the crime. There were lots of officials there, vampires, demons, and kitsune alike. John had actually rather liked most of the kitsune he'd met, since they were more trouble-makers than torturers (though some of them were just plain evil, from what he'd read in a book of Sherlock's). But John never liked demons much, because they were always brutish pricks, but luckily there were only two.

They were approached by one of the demons, who was surprisingly fat compared to most of the other demons John had seen. The row of jagged teeth half sticking out of his mouth didn't seem to fit his portly build. John half expected him to sniff out John as a human the moment he saw him, since demons had possibly keener senses than even vampires, but he didn't look at John twice. For obviously being the detective on scene, he seemed oddly unobservant.

"You must be that amateur the Countess called in," said the demon.

Sherlock looked down at John for only a moment to show his irritation at being called an 'amateur', but then looked up and gave a very fake smile (though the demon seemed not to notice that it was fake). "And you must be Detective Inspector Athelney Jones," he replied.

"Indeed I am. Don't know why she called you in though, since you're one of those theorists. We don't need theories, we need _answers_."

John could not make sense of this sentence, as the only way to get to an answer was through theories, but of course said nothing. The longer a demon paid him no attention, the better.

"Well, we'll see what I can do then," said Sherlock, hardly masking his sarcasm. He walked past Jones without another word and John followed. They found the body chalk white with the eyes wide, a pool of blood around his neck that looked black in the light. "John, take a look," said Sherlock.

"Me?" John asked in surprise. Usually, he just watched, and Sherlock occasionally asked him simple questions. John always thought Sherlock just liked having someone there.

"Yes, I'd like to see what you think of the body before I affect your perception of it with my own observation."

"So you just want me to tell you what I think?" asked John.

"You know my methods. Use them yourself."

John wasn't going to argue with that. He'd always had his own opinions that he kept quiet because he knew Sherlock would notice it all, so there was little point in mentioning it.

He leaned down and looked at the wound, its location and shape and depth. He tried to see every detail, no matter how insignificant, since in the small things was where Sherlock's strokes of genius were often found.

"Whoever did this, as someone already said, was either human or is pretending to be human, since these wounds were obviously made with some type of knife and not with nails or teeth, which would be the choice for any vampire, demon, or kitsune. But it seems that whoever did do this had a taste for irony, because these two slices, both cutting into the jugular vein and slightly curved toward each other, are supposed to be mimicking the bite mark a vampire would make when giving a lethal bite to the neck. But this can't be the cause of death, seeing as vampires heal themselves. It's hard to see with the blood all over, of course, but the actual wound is inflamed. I think someone put vervain in the open wound, which worked to poison the vampire. But there are also signs of asphyxiation, so I suppose they also forced vervain down their throat. If you open his mouth, it's likely you'll see sores on the inside where the plant burned the inside of the throat on the way down. With both of those sources of poison together, and the fact that the vampire was bleeding out, this is probably enough to kill it."

He looked up to Sherlock, who was obviously (and a little insultingly) shocked.

"You saw all that?" Sherlock asked.

"What, you didn't?" asked John with a smirk.

"Of course _I_ did, and much more than that. But I'm surprised you did."

John rolled his eyes. "I've been fascinated with the human body my whole life. Back in, you know, my old life, I planned to be a doctor. I did a lot of reading on it."

"I didn't know that," Sherlock said, as if angry at himself for not figuring it out on his own.

"I never talked about it. I didn't think it mattered here. That dream's kind of dead, don't you think?"

Sherlock looked just a little sad at John's words before he bent down in front of the body. "He's been dead barely more than an hour. It's likely whoever found the body only just missed the killer. You're right about the cuts and being meant to mimic a vampire bite, but I highly lean towards it being a vampire who did it, not a human."

"Really?" asked Jones, who had just come to listen in.

"If this were just an ordinary wound, this would be the right amount of blood, since vampires heal quickly enough that not much would be gone. But this wound had vervain in it, and thus was unable to heal correctly. It should have bled a _lot_. This implies someone stemmed the blood flow, a great deal of it. The only way to do that is to drink it out. Someone sliced open this vampire's throat in a way so it might be blamed on a human and drank the blood out."

"A vampire drinking from a vampire?" asked Jones skeptically.

"Humans have use of drinking from vampires too," said John. "It still could have been a human."

"Maybe, but for the amount of blood that's missing from this scene. A human can drink from a vampire, sure, but not this much of it all at once. They'd likely puke it up, if they honestly drank this much all in one go. And this would be the eleventh time in a month, which is far too much for a human to consume. No, this is a vampire's doing, I'm sure of it."

"That's preposterous," said Jones. "It looks like a human did it, so a human must have done it! Usually, when a crime's committed, the answer is just what it looks like!"

Sherlock looked up at him with the most patronising expression John had ever seen on his face. John thought it probably should have burned a hole in Jones' face. "Which is why the killer has struck eleven times now and you still can't find him. Have you not considered, even more a moment, that this implies a mistake in your theory?"

"But why would a vampire do this?"

"Power. There are myths that if a vampire drinks from other vampires consistently for an extended period of time, they'll become more than a vampire. A stronger being than anything ever seen."

"But that, as you said, is a myth. An urban legend, Mr Holmes. That story ends with the vampire spiraling into madness from killing his own kind. It's meant to be a cautionary tale against drinking from fellow vampires!"

"This person decided to test it out," Sherlock said.

"That just seems very unlikely to me, Mr Holmes!"

"When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

"That's just silly. 'Improbable' is very infrequently 'the truth'."

"And that view of crime is exactly why we still have a killer on the loose. Good day, Detective Inspector."

"Wait, we're leaving?"

"There's not more to see here," said Sherlock. "Plus," he added when they were out of earshot, "his blabber is lowering the IQ of the entire street. Better not encourage him into inflicting his opinions on the world any more than he already has."

John snorted in his attempt to hold back his laugh.

"We'll find the solution on our own. There are a few odd things that must be addressed though, things I can't explain. If there was vervain in the wound, how did a vampire drink it? We'll have to look at the earlier bodies to understand what this might mean, because I have a few thoughts. I can only hope the Countess kept them all." Sherlock kept talking, but his words got so technical that John no longer understood, so he tuned out.

That is, until Sherlock addressed him directly, and John found the topic had changed drastically. "So coming here has killed your dreams?" he asked casually.

John looked up at him. "Well, my dreams from earth, yeah. But that's the nature of people. Making new dreams."

"So what are your new dreams?" asked Sherlock with a smirk.

"You're the genius. Figure it out." He smiled at Sherlock, who glared, and John just laughed at him.

He was an idiot if he honestly didn't know what John wanted from his life here.


	8. A Messy Ball

After they had gotten into the case, John could pretty much stop expecting any romancing. Which didn't mean that it _never_ came, but that it was infrequent.

He now slept in Sherlock's bed, but Sherlock actually didn't sleep very often, so sleeping _next_ to him wasn't a possibility so far. See, vampires already didn't need sleep the same way humans did. It was more a state of meditation, and it wasn't strictly _required_, it was just to make the vampire clearer of mind. Sometimes they would get actually exhausted and need the sleep, but it was caused by a great deal of metal stress, usually. Sherlock said his mind didn't need such clearing normally, and that for him it actually made things worse because his mind became stagnant when he slept. So he usually didn't. John had only ever seen him in the act of meditation once, and that was back in the beginning. It'd looked very much like sleeping to him, but it technically wasn't.

One morning, John woke and found that Sherlock was staring at him from his chair by his desk.

"Morning," said John. "Am I interesting?"

"Generally," Sherlock replied, still looking at him intently.

"What are you thinking about?" asked John.

"The bodies," Sherlock replied.

John figured as much. Sherlock had said once that looking at John helped him to think, and John figured the only thing Sherlock would be thinking about was the case.

Three more bodies had piled up in the past week. The death toll was steadily increasing. And it had only been the day before that they'd had the chance to see the bodies…

* * *

The bodies had been moved to the Countess' house, for Detective Inspector Jones was apparently uncomfortable with the idea of Sherlock seeing their headquarters, being only a useless theorist and all. John liked the man less and less each time they met, but then again, he was far better than any of the other demons he'd been introduced to (or spat at by), so he couldn't complain too much.

"You know," said Countess Adler when they walked in, "this whole business is horrible, of course, but there's something about a dead body that's a little intriguing, isn't it?"

"I don't see what you mean," said John, because Sherlock was too busy looking at the bodies to pay her any mind.

"Well, a dead vampire. It's a little silly, isn't it? Since we're, in some ways, already dead."

Right, since the only kind of dead body there was were the vampire kinds. Who cared about the human ones? John didn't voice that though.

"You have blood running in you. You seem pretty alive to me."

"We're alive, sure, but we were human, and our human self has died, hasn't it? We died and started life anew, but then these vampires have died again… and this time it's really over for them."

"Unless you believe in the afterlife," said John.

"Do you believe in the afterlife, John?" she asked with a little playful smile.

"I'm not really sure," John said honestly. "I don't think about it much. My life is quite busy enough as it is to start thinking about another one."

She smirked. "You know, I quite forgot what it's like, being in the company of civilised humans. It's really not completely horrid. Plus, you smell so good," she added, stepping closer.

"Countess," Sherlock said in a warning voice. "Nobody feeds from my slave. Is that clear?"

"Oh, crystal," she said. "Other than you, of course," she added.

Sherlock didn't respond.

"He doesn't feed from me," said John, showing his neck. "See?"

"He wouldn't be the first to heal a human after feeding, John. I do it."

"Do you?" asked John in interest.

"I don't mind intimacy with anyone, really," she replied. "Intimacy is my cure for boredom, like mystery is for Mr Holmes over here. Speaking of which, have you found anything interesting?" she called over to him.

"Several things," said Sherlock. "But the most interesting is that the first three bodies do not have vervain in the wound."

"Really?" asked John in interest, walking over to him.

"No. See, the wounds were already half healed before they died of the vervain shoved down the throat. I didn't see the earlier scenes, but I'm willing to bet there was much less blood."

"So what does that mean?"

"That's what I have to figure out."

* * *

"There wasn't vervain in the actual wound until the fourth body," said Sherlock.

"Yes, I remember," John replied, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"You remember I told you that there's that myth that vampires get stronger from drinking the blood of other vampires."

"Right…"

"So the reason there's vervain in the later wounds is because it worked. Whoever was drinking from the vampires really is getting stronger from it, and after three bodies built up a tolerance to vervain."

"Then what's happened after fourteen bodies?" asked John.

"That's what worries me," said Sherlock, standing. "But at least now I have an idea of how to find the killer."

"You do?" asked John, getting out of bed.

"I've had this idea swirling in my mind for several days now," said Sherlock, "but now I know it's the best option."

"Okay…"

"A ball."

John raised an eyebrow. "I suppose you don't mean a football."

"A gala," Sherlock said. "A formal gathering of aristocrats for dancing and drinking and other such formalities."

John stared at him for a moment. "You want to throw a party."

"A ball."

"Okay, so a fancy party."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, standing up. "Mycroft will be thrilled. I was supposed to have a ball ages ago, introducing myself formally as The Honourable Sherlock Holmes."

"How long ago?"

"Oh… about fifty years ago. But better late than never, right?"

* * *

Mycroft was indeed fond of the idea of a ball.

Unless it was Sherlock's idea, of course.

"You hate balls," declared Mycroft. "What did you call them? A great cesspool of the rich and needy trying to find themselves in shallow conversation, cheap whoring, and Black Magic wine?"

"Though I'm quite flattered usually when someone can quote me word for word, it's not actually quite as pleasing to the ear when you do it, somehow."

"Sherlock, don't think me enough of an idiot not to see that there's something more going on here than you're saying."

"Of course there is. There always is. But in his case, I simply wish to introduce myself into society like a good little vampire. So, this Saturday?"

Mycroft looked down at John for a moment, like maybe this was half his fault, and then back to Sherlock. "Fine," he said, "but if anything goes wrong—"

"It'll be on my head, I know."

"No. It'll be on _his_," he said quietly, looking at John pointedly. Then he quickly turned and was gone before John could see him going.

"D'you think he means that?" John whispered.

"Probably," Sherlock replied. "But if something happens to go wrong and it couldn't _possibly_ be my fault, then he can't punish you for it."

"Right," John muttered, as if Sherlock were making sense.

* * *

"Sherlock, this is utterly ridiculous. There's no way Mycroft won't see through this."

"It's genius in its simplicity, John. Just you wait."

Sherlock's plan, which was apparently simple, didn't seem very simple at all to John. 'Simple' was walking down to the other side of town to talk to Countess Adler. Planning an extravagant ball and inviting everyone in the City in order to have everyone you know drink poisoned wine just to see who doesn't get poisoned while all the time making sure your very clever brother doesn't know that you're the one who's doing it… that wasn't simple.

But Sherlock seemed to think it was, and so far, it was going well.

Everyone had arrived to the Holmes Gala. They were in the finest clothes John could imagine in his head. Even the slaves were allowed to dress up, because it apparently made you look poor if you couldn't afford to make the un-hired help look presentable.

It was the end of the ball they were waiting for. Slaves would hand out a drink to everyone for a toast. That drink would be laced with vervain. Everyone would take a sip, and everyone simultaneously would start coughing up blood. It's not enough to kill anyone, but enough to cause physical damage. Sherlock would know who is immune by who is unaffected. Said person couldn't even pretend to be affected when they actually weren't, because there would be no physical damage. The moment they all began to choke, he'd run around check to see who wasn't coughing up blood. He couldn't miss anyone in his search, and couldn't be noticed looking. John believed he could do it, yes, but it still didn't sound simple.

John was glad that part of the conduct of balls was not to publicly torture your servants or the servants of others, as it was rude to make a gory mess for your host to clean up. So nobody was rude to him (at least not too bad)—even the two slavers Brax and Vercon. They'd just glared, like they wished they were upset he hadn't died from his punch in the face from Vercon.

In not having to be afraid of getting whipped by a stranger for fun, or something else like that, he watched the people (or non-people monsters) go about their business. It was interesting to watch them be so… human. Minus the fact that there were two punch bowls, one of Black Magic wine and one of blood, it was actually pretty ordinary, just what you'd expect from a ball.

And so many people were there! The ballroom was large enough to host the several thousand in attendance without everyone being too cramped together. Everyone John had ever really seen was there. Even the Earl himself, who hardly left his study, made an appearance to welcome people to his home, but he left soon after because it seemed he hated parties nearly as much as Sherlock did. The social and the antisocial alike could be found at the ball, and John was hopeful that one of these people was the killer, and would thus make themselves apparent tonight after the toast.

John stayed at Sherlock's side, like a slave was supposed to, but he was one of the few that was left unchained. One that the master was sure wouldn't run off.

In fact, there were only four in all at the ball, and the only one John knew was Greg, Mycroft's servant. He was also the only one not constantly walking around with his master, because he was being allowed to talk to his mother and 'father' for a time. Mycroft must have been quite fond of him.

John was left alone for a short of time by Sherlock, who was apparently looking around for 'suspicious behaviour' and wanted to do it at vampiric speed, and thus John couldn't follow him.

John wasn't alone for long though.

"You know, Sherlock Holmes underestimates us."

"Countess Adler," said John with a bow, internally sighing. Then he paid attention to what she said. "He underestimates everyone. But how do you mean?"

"Maybe some of us are clueless, but Sherlock throwing a Gala has not left me without suspicion, Mr Watson."

"It was Mycroft's idea," John lied.

"Even if it were, why would Sherlock do it? He doesn't listen to his brother."

John looked around for a moment, considering all the vampires that could hear him.

"If you want me to explain," John said. "We need to go somewhere where we won't be overheard."

"Easy," she replied, grabbing his arm. And with a flash of nauseating colour, they were suddenly in her manor.

"That… was weird," he said.

"Now what's going on?" she asked.

"It's to do with the case. I can't tell you what he's planning, because I'd ruin it. But he thinks he'll find the killer tonight."

She looked him up and down. "Alright, now that's believable. Now, since he's out of earshot, has he told you about your name?"

"How he knew a John Watson?"

"Oh, he _has_ told you then. I'm surprised. He's not one for trust." She gave a smile. "Then again, his relationship with the other Watson was strange too." She grabbed his arm and again, he was flashing through the world so quickly he couldn't see a thing, and they were back where they had previously been standing, in the ballroom in the Holmes Manor. "Good evening, John."

And she was gone.

* * *

The time came for the toast. Drinks had been passed around for nearly an hour to get to everyone, since it was humans doing it, but then Mycroft made a nice little speech about his brother _finally_ accepting his aristocratic role in society that John couldn't listen to, because he was too anxious for what was to come.

"To The Honourable Sherlock Holmes!" cried Mycroft.

And John looked over to Sherlock expectantly... just to see him drinking too. A glass laced with vervain. What the hell was he thinking?!

"Sherlock!" he hissed. But Sherlock had already had some, and he immediately started coughing, joining the chorus of others doing the same. If John didn't know what was happening, he'd think everyone was dying.

"Vervain!" one vampire choked out, and the others were panicking, dropping their glasses so they shattered on the floor.

Then Sherlock was gone, obviously running around to do his job, to check who was faking. Sherlock was gone for an entire minute as everyone was coughing and choking and yelling and Mycroft was trying to keep the peace while hacking up blood himself.

Sherlock returned.

"Nobody," he rasped. "Nobody in the room is faking."

"Why'd you drink it?" John whispered.

"Because Mycroft would know I did the lacing if I were the only one who was okay, wouldn't he?"

Sherlock had knowingly taken in poison to save John's hide. He didn't know whether to be irritated or flattered.

"But nobody's faking?" John asked, back to the issue at hand. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Then your theory was wrong?" asked John, distressed.

"No. Whoever the killer is did not attend the Gala. And the amount of vampires that didn't attend is lower than the number that did. We're halfway there."

* * *

It took a while longer for everyone to heal and stop panicking. Mycroft threatened a most painful death on whoever did the lacing, though luckily he didn't seem to suspect his brother, on account of the fact that he had also had some. The party, as you might imagine, was ended early. Some people were of the opinion that whoever did this was responsible for the murders in Sector Five, which made John a little entertained. Not quite, he thought, but nice try.

Sherlock's bloody, glassy mess in the ballroom was of course left to the servants to clean, so it was several hours later—though servants aren't allowed to know time, so John couldn't be sure how long it was—when he walked up to Sherlock's quarters, tired, dirty, and his hands covered in cuts from picking up glass.

"Sherlock, I really hate you," he said when he came inside.

"I can honestly say I did not consider the mess you would have to clean up after that experiment."

"Yeah, I figured," John muttered. But then he looked up and paid attention to his surroundings a bit. Sherlock was still in his ball clothes, a posh suit with a blue silk shirt that made his eyes brighter than ever, even when he could have changed hours ago. He was sitting in his chair with a bottle in his hands. A bottle of Black Magic wine. "What's going on?" asked John with a little smile.

"This can wait," said Sherlock, setting down the bottle and standing up. He then put his finger in his mouth, bringing it out with a tiny wound. Just enough for a drop of blood. John took it into his mouth without hesitation and the stinging in his hands vanished.

"Thank you," John said quietly, looking down that them. He wasn't sure he'd ever get used to that. Not even a hint that there had once been an injury there (other than the broken knuckles, since that injury was too long ago to fix).

"Now," said Sherlock, picking up the bottle again. "Tonight was, though it might seem not to be to you, a success. We're much closer to finding the killer than we were yesterday. I need only make a list of everyone in the city who didn't attend."

"Or that left early," John added.

"Very true," Sherlock agreed. "But I think this one small victory calls for celebration."

John raised a brow at him. "You think that success calls for more work so it can lead to more success," said John. "So what's _really_ going on?"

Sherlock smirked. "You've become more difficult to fool. Maybe you really are learning my methods. I just know you've never tried any of this," he said, lifting the bottle, "and I think you'd enjoy it."

"Probably I would," said John.

"And I wanted to spend time with you." He paused. "And this wine is actually quite amazing," he added. "It's the only thing a vampire can live off of other than blood."

John had never heard that before. "Really?"

"Not forever, I don't think, but for a time."

"Interesting."

Sherlock popped open the bottle and gave John a small glass. In fact, it was only enough for a few sips.

Sherlock saw the look on John's face and said, "You can't have more. It's too strong for humans to have much. Trust me, you'll see why."

John shrugged and took a generous sip.

The first thing he did was give a satisfied sigh at the lightness of his limbs. The heaviness of his eyelids. A feeling of utter relaxation. He felt he wanted to say something, but he was too tired for a moment to think of what it was.

A second later, however, that feeling gave way to a new one. He felt electrified, internally, like he'd never been happy in his entire life until that moment. It was strange how his body could feel so fuzzy and distant, but his mind was so sharp and enthusiastic.

He couldn't even remember the taste, even a moment later, but it was reminiscent of the scent of the Black Magic roses he enjoyed.

"This…" he murmured. "This is good."

Sherlock laughed at him. An open laugh, unlike what he usually sounded like. John focused his eyes and saw an empty glass in Sherlock's hand. He'd chugged at least one glass already. And it was affecting him too. John just hoped it wouldn't give him a loose tongue.

"It _is_ good, isn't it?" he replied. "Almost as good as sex, they always say."

"You don't have a point of comparison there though," said John. "But I could fix that."

So much for not having a loose tongue.

"You're right," Sherlock replied, and John just saw that glint in his eye, had just enough notice to set down his glass, before Sherlock surged forward and knocked him over, leaving them both lying on his bed. "And I must say, I've wanted to sleep with you for ages."

John felt a burning in his abdomen at the words, and he just stared up at Sherlock. Apparently they both were about to say things they'd usually keep to themselves. That was bound to be interesting.

"I think the reason I haven't," said Sherlock, "is that I don't want you to feel like another slave that's supposed to sleep with his master. That's common enough around here. And I don't want you to think it's only that part of you I care about."

John gulped. "It isn't?"

"No. It never was. It wasn't even that you were the new Watson. Watson… he was my friend. But the bond with you never felt that way, not even in the beginning."

"Not for me either," John admitted. "So…" he added. "We can totally sleep together and I won't think it's just because of this stellar body of mine."

"Not when you're drunk, John."

"Oh, come on, you don't care about social rules like that."

"That's true, I don't," said Sherlock, inching closer to John's face, close enough that John's stomach clenched nervously. "But when I _have_ you," he said with a smirk, using his new vocabulary from Countess Adler and lowering his voice until it sounded silky and seductive, "I want you to remember every moment of it. I want you to feel _every_ _single thing _I do to you, with all of your faculties functioning at their peak performance."

The intensity in Sherlock's eyes and words made John simultaneously burn with need and feel inexplicably apprehensive.

"So now's not the time," Sherlock finished, his voice back to normal. "I've probably gotten you tired anyway," he added. "The wine does that."

"I'm not… Not tired…" John mumbled, eyelids fluttering.

"No, of course not. Why don't you just get under the covers?"

John obeyed, and Sherlock got under too, letting John rest on his shoulder.

"You're sleeping too? While I am? You never do that."

"Can't think of a better time to start."

And the both of them, almost instantly, fell asleep.


	9. Interesting Wake-Up Call

John woke up feeling more well rested then he had since he arrived here in the first place. Could have been the effect of the wine… or it could have been the fact that he was still splayed out across Sherlock's chest. He wasn't sure which.

Sherlock probably hadn't slept in weeks, John figured, and though he said he didn't need it, John suspected that wasn't true. Especially considering that even when John woke up, he was still fast asleep. They were both still in their formal clothes from the ball.

John adjusted himself so he could just watch Sherlock in his sleep… that was when he realised something was strange about it. It took him a moment to recognise what it was.

He wasn't breathing.

This wasn't surprising. Vampires didn't technically need to breathe, Sherlock had told him once, they just did it because they were without their sense of smell if they didn't, and because of that it becomes habit, which is why they still breath harder under times of physical stress or arousal.

But when they slept, it just stopped. John didn't like it, because it took a great deal of effort not to shake him awake to make sure he wasn't dead. Especially considering vampires were always rather cold.

Instead of focusing on the fact that he wasn't breathing, he instead just looked at his face. At the shape of it, at the texture. Sherlock, who looked so unlike anyone else John had ever seen. Because, usually, a person could look vaguely like someone else you know. People don't really vary _that_ much in appearance from one another. But Sherlock, he was a face all his own. There was no mistaking that face for someone else's. Of his voice, for that matter. Or the feel of his hands on your skin. John shuddered just thinking about it.

When had everything changed? When had John stopped minding that he was stuck here? When had Sherlock become so beautiful to him? And when had that beauty stop being based just on the mystery of the creature and the blood that felt like heaven, and start being based on the mind and the heart of the man?

Because John, in his heart of hearts, could not imagine a place he belonged more than by Sherlock's side. No matter if he was stuck in a world where the sun makes the earth look bloodstained and torture was commonplace. No matter if he was a slave, no more significant to the rest of the world than a pile of rubbish.

And now Sherlock had admitted, out loud, that he felt something too—something emotional, not just physical. There was honestly no place he'd rather be.

That was when there was a pounding underneath the floor, coming from the staircase that led to the room.

"Sherlock, wake your servant up!" said Mycroft.

John was about to respond that Sherlock was still sleeping when Sherlock, which his eyes still closed, called, "Go away, Mycroft! I'm asleep!"

"I need to speak with John quite urgently, Sherlock."

"Well I need him to do some cleaning quite urgently, so you can't have him."

"Oh, stop being a child, Sherlock."

"Who's being a child? He's mine and you can't have him."

"I need to show him something that I guarantee will interest him. so if you'd just wake him up and let me speak—"

"I'm awake," said John. "I'll come down the moment Sherlock allows, Lord Holmes."

See, it sounded obedient, but was really just John being as much of a child as Sherlock was being, secretly, since he couldn't yell, 'Well I'm in bed and I'm comfy, so go away!'

"Sherlock, let him down. He _needs_ to see this."

The urgency in his voice caught John's attention. He looked at Sherlock and nodded. Sherlock looked obstinate.

"Come on, Sherlock," John said, not bothering to whisper because the magic of the room made it impossible to be overheard unless you're specifically talking to someone outside the door. "You can come with us, and then after we'll come right back here. Okay?"

"Oh, fine," he said loudly, maybe as a response to both of them. "But you know the rules."

"Sherlock…" Mycroft said irritably.

"I won't open the door until you do it."

Sherlock was referring to the fact that he never opened the door to his room unless there was nobody in the stairwell. So, if anyone came to call, they would have to walk down to the bottom of the steps and wait for him. But the thing was, the only one who ever came to Sherlock's room directly was Mycroft, so it was really so he never saw what a mess Sherlock's room was and started to gather that none of his slaves were cleaning it.

John couldn't hear anything, but presumably Sherlock heard Mycroft walk down the steps, because in barely two seconds he was out of bed and in his normal attire.

"Get dressed," he said. "He'll find it strange that you never changed."

"Won't he find it strange that my hands aren't cut open too?" John asked as he threw on his everyday clothes.

"It's not that strange to heal your own slave. I'd bet you that his, Greg, has smooth hands as well."

The two walked out of the room and met Mycroft at the bottom of the stairs.

"You don't need to come," said Mycroft to Sherlock.

"I was curious," Sherlock replied.

"Fine then," Mycroft replied, walking at a leisurely pace towards the front of the manor.

"I thought you wanted to talk?" asked John tentatively, not sure if asking something like that sounded rude.

"I do. But the discussion requires a visual aide."

Part of John was a little worried that he had found proof that the vervain in the wine of the night before was Sherlock's fault, and thus was taking John to get whipped or something, but he put that fear out of his mind the best he could. Sherlock was thorough; Mycroft wouldn't catch him.

"I went to the market today for a new slave for door duty," said Mycroft. "I didn't have much hope for anything good, but I was lucky enough to find another from England. Strong, for a girl."

They started down the steps to the Entry Hall.

"Then, outside, I asked her name, much the same way I did with you. And when I heard the name, I could only assume this woman would be of interest to you."

They reached the bottom of the steps, and before John could ask what the hell he was talking about, he heard, "JOHN!"

John whipped his head around at the voice and was met by none other than his sister, Harry, running towards him to give him a hug.

"Harry!" he replied when she tackled him, his voice not quite finding a happy edge, considering her circumstances. She luckily didn't have any blood on her, and her clothes were still intact.

"I've been worried about you, John," she said, "but I figured you were taken here, by the fact that you utterly vanished. Once I knew I was in the right town, it didn't take me long to find the slavers, and I just didn't put up a fight and I came with them."

John first wondered how she could say it 'didn't take her long', since it had been months since he disappeared from the human world, but there seemed to be more urgent matter to discuss. "You let slavers take you without a fight? Are you completely mental?" he scolded. "All to come save me?"

"John, I've been looking for this place all along. Did you think I wasn't going to get in any way that I could? And I can only get in as a slave, so I did. It only made me more determined to find it once I realised you were taken. You getting sucked into this world too was never my intention."

"You just intended to vanish, the way I did?" asked John quietly.

"Well… yes, actually. Is that terribly selfish of me?"

"Yes, actually," said John.

She looked thoughtful for a moment, but then she looked him up and down. "You kind of look different," she said. "Apart from the tights, I mean. I dunno what it is…"

"This place'll do that to you. And yeah, it's weird, you look just the same," he said.

She looked at him with an eyebrow up. "What, did you expect I got plastic surgery in the past twenty-four hours?"

"Twenty four hours?" asked John blankly.

"Erm… yeah. John, you've only been gone a day."

He gaped at her. "No I haven't. I've been gone months, lost track of how many!"

"John, I only just saw you yesterday."

John was ready to argue when Sherlock approached them. "John, time runs differently here than it does in your world. She's probably right, it's only been a day there."

John stared at him for a moment. "Why didn't you ever tell me that?" he asked crossly.

"I didn't think it mattered," Sherlock replied. "Since you can't go back and all…"

John was quiet, and Harry spoke. "You've been here months?" she asked. He nodded. "And what do you mean he can't go back?" she asked.

"He just can't. Humans aren't allowed to leave once they come."

"But he came here by accident. You've got to let him leave," she said. "I got him into his mess."

"I'm sorry, Harriet, but that just isn't possible," said Mycroft.

She looked at John, translating a whole lot of guilt in her face.

John felt bad, her feeling guilty, when he was honestly happy here, so he said, "It's fine, Harry. Really. I've gotten used to it here."

"But I got you into this. I'm your older sister, I'm supposed to watch out for you. And now both of us will be gone forever and mum won't see either of us again."

"What, you think she would have been able to handle you vanishing as long as I was still there?"

"Sure, why not? You're the good kid. I only cause her trouble."

"Harry, don't say that," he said firmly.

She sighed. "Doesn't matter now, I guess. You can't leave."

It was quiet for a bit before Mycroft said, "Okay, family reunion is completed then?"

"Yes, Lord Holmes," replied Harry, and John was surprised that when he looked at her, standing at attention and sounding obedient and a little scared, that he thought of their father. Though maybe she'd sounded more afraid back then. What did it say about dear old dad if they were both more afraid of him then a clan of vampires?

"Good. Then you'll start on the door today."

"Wait," John said. "Door duty? Harry, I've had that job, you don't want it."

"I think you forget your place, John," Mycroft said dangerously, which made John shut up.

"John, it's fine," said Harry. "I came here because I wanted to. I knew what this world was like."

"You came to a world where you could get tortured on purpose?" he asked incredulously.

"People do strange things," she replied. And she followed Mycroft to the door to hear her instructions.

John was just gaping after the two of them, and after a moment like that Sherlock grabbed John by the arm and they flashed through the house and up into Sherlock's chambers.

"I've been so selfish," said John. "I wasn't even thinking about mum and how this is going to affect her."

"And what's the point of worrying about your mother?" asked Sherlock.

John looked up at him angrily. "What's the _point_? Does there have to be a point to it?"

"Worrying about her won't make it better for her. And by the time you've aged and died in this world, you won't even have been gone a year."

"And that means I shouldn't care?"

"It means it's stupid to make yourself miserable over something you can't change. My mother has been in a state of shock for more than a century now, and I could be making myself mad over it, but I know there's nothing that can be done about it, so I don't worry on it."

"You don't worry on it because you don't care," said John.

"So what if I don't? If I went into the same state, nobody in this house would care either."

"I'd care," John said, meaning for it to sound defiant, but it came out as a miserable mumble.

Sherlock sighed. "I know you would. And you're the only one," said Sherlock, approaching him. John, in need of support, wound his arms around Sherlock's torso, and Sherlock held him. "I'm sorry about your sister, and about your mother. I regret anything that makes you unhappy. But it seems your sister wanted to come here, if that helps at all."

"Just means she's totally mad."

"Mad people can be quite happy."

John smirked. "True. I've fallen for the likes of you, so I'm mad as well."

"Are you? Maybe I should study your brain for anomalies. Unfortunately, you've not got much brain to study."

"Oh, shut up," John said into his chest.


	10. A Break From List-Making

**Welcome to the smut. The official smut, as if this entire story hasn't been filled with non-penetrative sex all the fuckin' time. Enjoy. ; ]**

* * *

Sherlock had been working on his list for days. Even when he was doing other things, he would suddenly remember a person who was not in attendance to the ball and would stop in the middle of whatever else he was doing and run to put the name on his list. He hadn't left his room now since the day before yesterday, and hadn't even bothered to dress in anything but a tunic and leggings, like what John always wore. It was kind of nice to see him in less layers than usual, but otherwise, the whole process with grueling and dull.

John, occasionally, could help as well (almost).

"That one guy from the post office, he wasn't there. What's his name?"

"Yes, I put him down," said Sherlock impatiently.

"Oh, and your parents."

"I'm also aware of that."

"I just wasn't sure whether you'd put them on the list."

"Them being my parents doesn't put them past my suspicion. All people must be accounted for."

And once, John even actually helped.

"What about the Earl of Ten? He left early."

Sherlock looked over to him. "Did he really?"

"Yes, I'm positive of it."

"Oh. Thank you, John."

John had felt rather more proud of himself than probably he ought to, for such a small discovery. Maybe if it ended up actually being the Earl from Ten, then John could actually give himself a pat on the back.

But Sherlock had told John that, so far, saw no more suspicion in one person on the list than another. Who in this world didn't thirst for power? Who, depending on the circumstances, would take drastic measures to get it? And how many people here barely had morals in the first place? Most of them. Sure, there was a code of honour, and a sense of self-preservation that would make them want to stay out of trouble, but otherwise it wasn't very surprising that someone would do something like this. It surprised John that there wasn't more crime, seeing as almost everyone was a great big bag of dicks. Then again, they didn't consider most of the crimes that took place as "crimes" at all, just as destruction of private property, which was just a right. So maybe vampires and demons and things just got most of their aggression out on humans, and thus didn't need to kill each other, usually.

John was pacing around, bored as hell. He's gone and seen his sister today, and he'd already eaten. There was nothing to do but watch Sherlock scribble names on his list.

"John, you're making me anxious," said Sherlock, not looking up from his parchment. "Can't you sit down?"

"I'm so tired of sitting I can't even tell you," said John. "I could pace somewhere else," he suggested.

"I'd still hear you. I'm too attuned you your actions."

"Then why don't you take a break? We can go into the Kitsune sector and see a play or something. I heard someone at the ball talk about how they're performing Gant and Moriana for the next two weeks."

"That's a romance," Sherlock complained.

John stopped walking, looking over to Sherlock with an amused look on his face.

"What?" Sherlock asked, obviously irritated that he even had to ask. John stepped toward Sherlock until he was right in front of his chair, and then wedged his legs between Sherlock's and leaned over until his lips were nearly touching Sherlock's.

"Do you have something against romance?" he breathed.

The only change in expression in Sherlock was a quick quirk up of one of his eyebrows, just the shadow of a mischievous smile in his eyes, and his lips just barely parting to exhale quietly.

"Watching it, yes. Being a part of it… is growing on me a little."

"Only a little?" John asked, getting closer again so he could just barely feel the skin of his lower lip on Sherlock's upper when he spoke.

Sherlock only lasted another moment before he struck.

Well, 'struck' sounds so violent, so maybe it isn't the right word…

But no. 'Struck' is the right word.

Quick as the lunge of a snake before the bite, one moment John was leaning over a sitting Sherlock, and next second John's back was against a wall and Sherlock was pressed against him, his hot mouth insistent on John's. One of his hands was securing both of John's wrists above his head, and the other was gripping hard at John's hip. John wasn't sure when his shackles had been taken off, but they were now gone, probably abandoned to the floor.

It was all already hot enough, but then somehow the speed of it, the absolute strength, made it all the sexier. John was struggling against Sherlock's wrist instinctually, and he was surprised that the complete inability to escape made his body burn hotter, made him grow harder against Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock backed away for a moment, looking John in the eyes, and chills went up and down John's spine at the look that was clearly in his eyes.

Hunger.

Sherlock felt the reaction, because then he smiled, the most sinful, the sexiest smile John had ever seen.

In another movement too quick for John to process, John's back was against the mattress instead of the wall, with Sherlock between John's legs, and Sherlock's tongue was invading John's mouth once more. John's hands were free this time, so he pressed against Sherlock's back, his arse, just to get him closer.

In another blink, Sherlock had removed both of their tunics.

John had always known Sherlock could move so fast that it seemed like he was doing several things at once, but had never thought of it in this context. How Sherlock could remove John's clothes without there even seeming to be a break in the kissing. But still it didn't feel rushed. John could feel every touch, and it seemed to reverberate through his whole body, to set fire to his skin and set pure invigoration through his veins. John couldn't breathe, and he had never felt so good in his life.

And Sherlock wasn't even doing anything yet.

At least, not right then. Because barely a few moments later, that wasn't true at all.

Sherlock had their trousers off, and then they both were just skin and skin against each other. Sherlock was smooth and hot with his arousal, and John could clearly feel his prick against his own, the friction of even the slightest movement making him shiver.

John could hardly keep track of his movements at that point. Sherlock reached over in a timespan faster than a blink and grabbed something. Next moment, Sherlock's fingers had gone inside John, covered in some slippery substance. Lube in the Dark Dimension? John vaguely wondered what they used, but couldn't really think at all anyway.

Sherlock's fingers worked in there, and it felt strange at first, but then he got used to the sensation and found himself mewling uncontrollably.

A moment where everything froze. Sherlock looking down at John.

"Are you ready?" he asked. John didn't expect any warning, but was glad for it. He nodded, unable to speak.

Something larger replaced the fingers, and John let out a yell. Sherlock's own groan made John feel only hotter. Sherlock's pace was slow for a short time, to get John used to the sensation, but then he sped up.

And sped up more.

And sped up past what a human would probably be capable of.

And Sherlock lunged forward and buried his face in John's neck, and the tell-tale sting of pain was followed by John's pleasure being doubled as Sherlock sucked at his vein.

Sherlock's hand then found John's prick and started slipping his hand up and down it. John felt like he should have come already, because the sensations were so strong, but it almost seemed Sherlock was stopping him with sheer force of will.

Then came the moment John wasn't sure would come at all. He hadn't felt the pause in Sherlock's sucking, but still he suddenly thrust his arm over his head so his wrist was in John's face. Dripping blood from a bite that Sherlock must've made so quickly John didn't even notice the pause. Sherlock was somehow able to thrust into John, pump his cock with his hand, offer John his own blood with the other, and suck as John's vein all at the same time. Multitasking a human could never manage.

John didn't hesitate to put his mouth to the wound.

The affect was instantaneous. It was like the whole world had stopped. Nothing else existed, other than pleasure that burned white hot and sent lighting through every molecule in John's body. All the pleasures blended into each other until John could not tell them apart anymore, and it was all just sensation, the most astounding sensation John had ever known. John forgot how to think and how to breathe and didn't know where he was or how loud he was being or anything at all other than that Sherlock was right there. Sherlock was everything.

And then he was thrust suddenly into a memory, like he vaguely remembered happened during blood-sharing. He found himself in the mind of Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

"I've found it!" I cried "I've found it!" I ran for the first person in the room, which happened to be old Stamford with some friend that was obviously just back from the Afghan war with some sort of injury. He was young, likely my own age. I stowed the thought away momentarily in order to declare my discovery. "I have found a re-agent which is precipitated by haemoglobin, and by nothing else!"

Stamford ignored it. "Dr Watson, Mr Sherlock Holmes," he said.

"How are you?" I asked him, shaking his hand enthusiastically with the excitement from my discovery coursing through my veins so that I wouldn't have to send cocaine in instead, just to cure the boredom, for several days. "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."

The young man, with a bushy mustache and tired eyes, asked, "How on earth did you know that?"

"Never mind," I chuckled. "The question now is about haemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of mine?"

After a conversation on the practicality of my discovery in the field of criminology, Stamford had a word to say again.

"We came here on business. My friend here wants to take diggings; as you were complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I thought that I had better bring you together."

I was delighted. I had thought it might be utterly impossible to find someone to share with. "I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street," said I, "which would suit us down to the ground. You don't mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?"

"I always smoke 'ship's' myself," answered he.

"That's good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?"

"By no means."

We discussed such things for a brief time, as I thought it just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together. I was the slightest bit concerned at the fact that he mentioned with a laugh that he had shaken nerves from his time in Afghanistan, and thus objected to loudness or too much excitement.

It turned out, however, he did not object to such things quite as much as he thought he did, because when our first case, A Study in Scarlett, came round, he was all too happy to join in on the hunt for whomever might have killed Enoch Drebber of Cleveland, Ohio.

And the two of us got on, more swimmingly than ever I could have expected.

Watson was first a partner, than a friend, then like a brother to me—more family to me than any of my real family could ever be.

True, at some moments it was a relationship that stroked my own ego, because Watson found me most extraordinary. He said about my deductions once that had a lived a few centuries earlier, I would have been burnt at the stake for witchcraft. And when I told him that the answer to a baffling question was "elementary" or that "it is simplicity itself", I only was trying to impress him. But still, I grew to care for him, really care.

He was there through everything. Even through the mysterious letters from Moriarty, a villain I never saw, but always searched for, and secretly felt both fear and admiration towards. Me, afraid! And Watson, the brave soul, stayed by me through it!

Even after my transformation, he did not shrink away from me.

It was not until the day my brother decided—nay, dared—to take me away to another world.

And I would never see Watson again.

And then came John.

I had gotten colder from my time in the City. From my separation from Watson, who was for a time my only humanity.

But I could see my old companion Watson in his eyes, and then I could see something more. That John was everything I ever wanted. That in a universe of life and death and love and hate and so many things that didn't matter, because all that I needed was the work, was the thrill of the chase… John Watson was the only thing that could make me slow down. Time froze still, and all I could see was him. All that mattered was him.

It was nothing like my relationship with Watson. It was so much more than that. They are both John Watson, and they are both important to me, and will be for the rest of my days. They both taught me more about life than all others in the world combined could wish to show a mind like mine. But where Watson showed me how to care, John showed me how to love.

And I vowed to myself the moment I met him one single thing. That I would never let him get away from me, not like Watson did.

I would make him mine, and he would be mine forever.

* * *

It all oozed into John—maybe taking a second or maybe an hour, he couldn't tell—while still he could feel Sherlock, and only Sherlock. Sherlock was seeing something of him too, but John wasn't sure what it was. He was too overwhelmed with everything he was feeling. John's carnal pleasure was still there, but it was bleeding into his feeling of closeness with Sherlock, so heady and wonderful it nearly brought tears of joy to his eyes.

But that again was pushed aside inch by inch to be consumed once more by the sensuous ecstasy of Sherlock in him, on him, around him, everywhere.

He hardly even knew how loud he was groaning, or that Sherlock was too, because there were too many things to feel for his body to feel much need to hear or smell or see.

"Oh, god, _Sherlock_," John grunted against the open wound on Sherlock's wrist. White hot pleasure was gathering in his abdomen as Sherlock's cock pounded into him at the same rate that his hand pumped his own erection. It was only another moment before he released, an explosion of sensation that made him feel like every one of his senses was on complete overload. He was vaguely aware of the mess he'd just made all over himself, all over Sherlock, but couldn't care one bit even if he tried. He was also only slightly aware of the fact that Sherlock had finished too, his jaw clamping down with only a slight, fuzzy amount of pain in John's neck. Then Sherlock detached his mouth from John's neck, took his wrist from John's lips. It was dripping down Sherlock's chin as he looked down at John with his eyes on fire, with his chest heaving.

And there was a smile there on his face. This time, not a malevolent one that guaranteed trouble. It was genuinely happy.

Sherlock took John's face in his hands and kissed him for a long moment.

"I love you," said John when Sherlock backed away, sure he had never known something with so much confidence in his life.

"I love you too," he replied, no hesitation, no anxiety in his voice.

And John knew that as long as that was true, nothing else mattered.

They cleaned up quickly and they lay next to each other, John curled into Sherlock's side. John's eyes were shut in utter relaxation. He felt nothing had ever worried him before. He'd never been tired or angry or sad or anything but so in love with Sherlock.

"What memory did you see?" he asked Sherlock quietly.

"I saw how your perception of me changed over time," said Sherlock. "I got to watch how another mind functions. It was quite fascinating."

"Yours was too," John said.

"What did you see?"

"How you met Watson, and how I was both the same and different from him. I could see the resemblance," John added, "but no, I'm not him."

"You never were," Sherlock agreed. "I still don't think it's a coincidence, and I am painfully curious about how you and he are connected, but you aren't him."

John looked up to Sherlock, and Sherlock looked down at the same time, catching John's lips in a sweet kiss.

"I think I've distracted you from your list," said John quietly.

"What list?" asked Sherlock with a smile, planting another kiss.


	11. Father Dearest

**I am now going to make a plug for a book. Not even a book by me. It is called ****_In Excess_**** by Quinn Anderson, a fellow Johnlock writer that published an original book. If you've never read her fics, then you are missing out and you should, but I just wanted to say that her book was SO GOOD. I couldn't put it down, and it is the sole reason this story didn't get a chapter yesterday, because I read the whole book in a day. You can buy it online or whatever. I got it for Kindle for 6. 50 USD. Really. Read it. If you like homoerotica perfection, GO BUY IT. And if you are reading my other in progress Johnlock, ****_A Scandal at Hogwarts_****, and already got this message—since I put it in both by literally copying and pasting the same message—I apologise. That is all.**

**Continue reading and enjoy.**

* * *

No matter if Sherlock acted as if he'd forgotten the list before, when they both awoke from a much needed nap after their desperate love making, John knew it wouldn't be long before Sherlock would have to return to it. He understood, of course. There was a killer to be caught, after all. But that didn't mean John wouldn't rather sit in bed with Sherlock forever.

John let his eyes drift over to Sherlock, lying naked next to him beneath the black sheets. Sherlock's eyes were trained intently on him, unnervingly so.

"Someday, you'll burn a hole in my face, you know," said John.

"Of all the many interesting and amazing powers I possess, I don't think lighting things on fire with only my mind is one of them."

"Oh, something your mind can't do? What a relief."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat up. His eyes moved to the parchment.

"Go work on your list, Sherlock," John said. "I don't mind."

"I'm missing something," said Sherlock finally.

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock looked over to John. "Anyone I might have suspected to have done this was at that ball. None of these people feel plausible."

"Who would you have suspected?" asked John.

"There is an assumption to be made. Only two types of people could get away with this. The vampire must have been seen in the streets before his strikes in Sector Five. So the two options are this: it was someone who commonly walks the Sector Five streets, and thus nobody would question their presence."

"Or?"

"Or it was someone with so much power that nobody would ever question their appearance anywhere."

"Okay…"

"But Sector Five is known for loving parties. They all were in attendance. All of them, literally. And so were all of the people that are powerful enough to never get asked questions."

"So did you miss someone at the party?"

"No… I just feel like the answer is right in front of me and I'm missing it. It's infuriating."

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

"Go away, Mycroft," Sherlock said immediately.

"Sherlock, father wants to speak with you."

There was a beat of dead silence.

"Is that supposed to be a joke?" asked Sherlock.

"Do I often joke?"

Sherlock looked over to John, his face more thoughtful than ever.

"Is it that weird?" asked John.

"I haven't talked to my father in probably ten years."

"Ten _years_? You live in the same house!"

"We're never in the same area," Sherlock said with a shrug.

"But you must have had some sort of falling out or something, to not talk for that long."

"No," Sherlock said. "We just never got along, and we talk when we need to. I hardly know the man, to be honest."

Hearing Sherlock say he didn't know someone was strange. He knew everyone, at least to a point, just by looking at them for long enough. If Sherlock didn't know his father… either Sherlock wasn't paying attention or Earl Holmes was quite difficult to read, even for someone like Sherlock. Both seemed unlikely.

Sherlock was getting dressed quickly as John thought these things.

"Don't go anywhere," demanded Sherlock. "I plan to tell you how this conversation goes. I bet it shall be interesting."

* * *

John was already nervous after Sherlock was gone a minute. He hadn't heard much about the head of Holmes Manor, but somehow that seemed like a bad thing. All he knew was Mary the slave worked for him and drank from her, but didn't care enough for her to heal him. And he knew he let his son Mycroft do all the actual work. He'd seen him that one time at the ball, but he'd seemed pretty unobtrusive. His voice was loud and proud, he gave an alluring grin, but that was all vampires.

John suspected it had been ten minutes when Sherlock came back in, and John knew something insane had happened. Sherlock's eyes were wide and wild, and he almost looked a little bit panicked.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't answer. He descended on John quickly, standing over him in a menacing way.

"Sherlock?" John enquired once more, but it sounded unsure and faint that time.

Sherlock immediately bit into his own wrist, letting it gush, and held it out to John.

"What, you're horny?"

"I need you to see what I saw. I believe if I stay in my right mind, I can control which memory you see when we blood-share. So give my your wrist, and we'll drink together."

John didn't bother to ask any more questions. He held out his arm obediently, and Sherlock bit down onto it immediately. Without the sexual arousal there usually was, the pain hurt a little more, but still it wasn't terrible, for he wasn't resisting. And barely a second later he put his mouth on Sherlock's wound, and John was again filled with that ecstasy that he always was with Sherlock's blood, and he groaned, but it wasn't the same. Like his body knew this was business, not pleasure.

And then he was thrust into the memory.

* * *

I walked through the corridor with a sense of dread. Speaking to my father never ended well. We two men had very differing views on what mattered in life.

And if anyone in the world was dull, it was my father. So predictable. Always aggressive, always asserting his dominance. He let Mycroft control the state and the governmental affairs, but Mycroft somehow didn't know that the only way our father would allow that was if he was somehow in control. I didn't even know how he was, but he had to be. He always had to be. It was the only thing that mattered to him. Power. Authority. Control.

And nothing was more boring than a one-track mind.

I went into his study without knocking, because he required everyone knock and a moment annoying Father was a moment well spent.

Father knew that I felt that way, too.

"Do we have to start every meeting this way?" he asked in the bored voice that all us Holmes' had in common. I looked around the room. It was much the same as it had always been. The only light was a roaring fire across from the door. There were dark leather couches and the walls were completely covered in books. All I could see of Father was his back, and only that was a flickering orange outline from the flame in the hearth.

"How else would you prefer we start?" I asked him.

"With you being respectful for once."

"I lost my sense of respect long ago."

"That implies you ever had it."

I sighed. "I assume you actually wanted to speak about something and not just speak about how much you hate me down to my core."

My father turned around. "I don't hate you, Sherlock." But he said it in this patronising voice, like he was wondering if I had hurt feelings.

No, I didn't have hurt feelings. He just made me sick to my stomach and bored enough to jump out a window just for something interesting to do.

"Right. What was it you wanted?"

Father looked about to argue, but probably thought better of it.

"The ball ended disastrously," he said.

I, for the first time since this conversation started, felt the first trickles of a different type of dread. Not just for an uncomfortable conversation with a father I never cared for, but dread that maybe he knew something I really needed him not to know.

"It did," I said casually. "People think it was the Sector Five Killer."

Father gave a deep chuckle. "Oh, they've got a name for him now?"

In that moment, that fraction of a second, my mind went on overdrive. Many things came to my mind all at the same time.

Power. Authority. Control. Those are the things Father values, and he'd do anything for them. Anything at all.

The two options of who the killer could be were someone who was in Five frequently or was too high up in authority to be questioned for walking anywhere.

Father thought the idea of the killer was funny.

Father left the ball early, and thus did not drink the wine.

I had to keep myself from physically reacting to the discovery. I was used to keeping my thoughts shielded from others, however, and I was able to just keep looking bored.

I was fairly certain I was right. But I had to test it.

I'd been carrying around extract of vervain in a little bottle in my pocket since the list making began. Just in case I wanted to test a new suspect out. Father had an open crystal bottle of bourbon on the table by the couch.

I just had to get the vervain in and wait for Father to drink.

And Father drank so much it was unlikely to take long. He already had a glass in hand, almost empty.

I strolled farther into the room, walking around to the table with the bourbon. Father was staring into the fire. "May I?" I asked. Father turned, seeing me holding up the bottle.

"By all means," he said, turning back to the fire. I poured my own glass, and then as I set the bottle down, I poured in the vervain. It was a risk, because if I was wrong, I'd get my head chopped off quite literally for poisoning my father, but I had a feeling I wasn't wrong at all.

"I don't understand the point of bringing up the ball," I said, taking a sip. It was admittedly nice. I did have a bit of a taste for fine alcohol, if in the right mood.

"You're aware you're brother's been running things for quite some time now."

"Too aware," I replied. "He likes to assert his authority quite frequently."

"Yes, your brother is the type for that. But I am worried that he is losing his touch." He turned around, and his glass had gone empty. He headed back to the table, and he pour himself some more. Oh, I knew he would get it quickly.

I just had to wait. I drank another sip of my own, knowing that would tell his mind he wanted more as well.

"Losing it how?" I asked him.

"Somehow, all the wine got poisoned, Sherlock. I feel he should have seen something like that happen."

"Maybe," I agreed noncommittally. I didn't like where this was going at all, because I already saw the end of this conversation.

"I think it's about time I take back my Sector and do it right."

That was when he took the sip.

And you know what happened?

Absolutely nothing. Not even a flinch.

My guess was right.

I kept my face stony, for he was looking at me.

"Why are you telling me this? Surely I'll figure it out when you take over."

"Because, Sherlock, I want to give you a warning. I've heard about you, you and your new slave and how you go about like silly kids around town, solving little crimes. And I want you to understand that things will be changing soon, and questioning my authority will not be tolerated."

I would not have been bothered by this speech whatsoever, but for the mention of John. There was a lingering threat towards him behind the words.

"Am I clear?" he asked.

"Crystal," I replied. "Now, if you're done, I'll be going."

Father said nothing, and I strode out before he could.

* * *

John was shocked out of the memory like cold water being poured on him. His mouth fell away from Sherlock's wrist, and Sherlock's teeth pulled out of his wrist.

"Your father… your father did it," he said, out of breath.

"Most certainly."

John couldn't get the look on Sherlock's face. He looked angry and just a little scared. "Well, you solved it. It's done," said John. "Isn't that a good thing? It's not like you like him."

"John, the law doesn't work very well here. I was quite afraid it would be someone high up in the hierarchy. It's nearly impossible to get them in trouble for anything, and if you try, they kill you for it."

John blinked. "So what're we gonna do?"

"For now, nothing. Act like we don't know."

"But what if he kills again?"

"He will," Sherlock replied.

"And you're okay with that?"

"I didn't say I was. I only said we're going to have to be the ones to stop him, not the law."

"But… he'll kill you if he knows you're trying to do that."

"Correct."

John didn't see how this was supposed to work out.

"And what is he building up all this power for?" asked John. "Surely not for the hell of it."

Sherlock inhaled deeply. "That's just what I've been pondering. He has a plan."

"What kind of plan?"

Sherlock met his eyes. "One you wouldn't like, that's for sure."

It was weird to John how little Sherlock seemed to know. Sherlock knew everything all the time, and now he seemed relatively clueless suddenly. It was unprecedented.

"And what about that threat?" asked John.

"That told me one thing."

"And what's that?"

"He's going to make changes, and I'm going to hate them. Hate them enough to openly defy them. And he knows full well, just as Mycroft does, that the way to punish me is through you."

John gulped.

He suddenly never wanted tomorrow to come. Couldn't they get back in bed and forget this happened? Couldn't they stay in this room forever?

"John," Sherlock said, coming forward. "It will be fine."

John was surprised Sherlock was comforting him at first, but then he imagined his face looked rather distressed suddenly, enough to get Sherlock worried.

Because John's gut was telling him all his happiness was about to go down the drain.


	12. The Word That's Law

**Sooo I apologise profusely for the fact that I haven't posted in more than a week. I've had a mixture of homework, watching far too much telly, and writing an original book based on my fic ****_Westwood University _****to distract me. **

**So yes, I'm sorry. But here's the chapter. Don't hate me. **

* * *

John awoke and was surprised to find that Sherlock was in bed with him. He was met with his pale eyes the moment he opened his own, and they were staring at him intently.

John knew that look by now.

"What're you thinking about?" he asked.

"My father," Sherlock replied automatically, his voice taking on a bitter tone.

"He's going to assert his dominance today, isn't he?"

"If not today, then quite soon."

"Okay… then what do we do?"

"Do what he says," Sherlock said with a sigh. "I can't imagine he'll change things too much. He must realise that Mycroft's been doing a pretty decent job."

John was surprised by the compliment, but said nothing.

"You really think he won't change anything?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "I don't know. I honestly don't."

John didn't like hearing that Sherlock didn't know something. It only made getting out of bed seem more daunting.

But just then, a grand bell rang. John shot up, looking at Sherlock with wide eyes.

There were obviously four smaller bells for the four Holmes' family members. But there was one other bell, a huge one that had one slave that manned it. All the slaves were told that it was a bell to call them all to the entry hall immediately, but Mycroft himself said that it's never used.

But there it was, ringing.

Things were already changing.

"It's fine," Sherlock said soothingly. And John really must have looked bad for Sherlock to feel the need to comfort him. "He's probably just announcing that he's taking over. You know, asserting his dominance, like you already said. It's nothing to worry about."

It was always hard to tell if Sherlock was lying, but John had a feeling he was.

"Come down with me," John said.

"I already planned on it," Sherlock replied. "But I can't stand _with_ you, of course, that's really not proper."

"I know. I just need you there so I can look at you."

Sherlock looked over to John, then took his face and kissed him softly, having more calming effect than a massage, a cuppa, and a sauna could have all at once.

The two of them went down quickly—because Sherlock tugged him along at double the speed John was probably capable of going. When John asked what the rush was, Sherlock just said, "Best not be late," which didn't help to relax John any further.

John lined up with the rest of the slaves, quickly noticing that all the ones he knew to be English were standing in the front, so he went between Greg and my sister, with Molly on the other side of Harry.

"What's going on?" asked Greg in a whisper.

"The Earl," John replied, not knowing what else to say. It turned out he didn't have time to say anything else anyway, because the aforementioned man entered. John had seen him once before, but he didn't get a good look at him that time. He looked a little more like Mycroft than he did Sherlock, in John's opinion, but he had dark eyes, unlike both his sons. He was a great deal shorter than both his sons, closer to John's height. Something about him made John want to shrink back and hide—and John really wasn't the type to hide from too many things, either.

John was relieved a moment later though when all the Earl did was tell everyone that he was going to take over the affairs of the sector alongside his son. Just staking his claim, like Sherlock had suspected. It was all John could do not to exhale with relief. He didn't even listen that closely. "Things shall be mostly the same…" blah blah, "… after the events at the ball…" blabbity blah, "now you may all go."

Everyone began to disperse, but not a moment later, the Earl added, "Except for the front row."

That was them. All the English ones. The favourites. There were seven left. John, Greg, Molly, Harry, Mary, Mrs Hudson, and Anthea.

The Earl had previously been at the top of the stairs, placing himself firmly above everyone else, but now he walked down the steps, more slowly than a vampire would usually move, like he had no worries in the world. John wondered what he could do that was better than most vampires now, after all the killings in sector five. John nearly forgot about that in his worries about what The Earl might change.

John was holding his breath.

"I have made a decision," the Earl declared, "based on my son's apparent taste for you all specifically. He gives you better quarters, you engage in the best jobs… it seems you seven are better servants than any of the dozens of others my manor possesses."

John wondered if the Earl knew that the only reason Mycroft liked them best was because they were all English. It wasn't because any of them are better servants than the others. Anthea doesn't even speak.

"I've decided," the Earl continued, "that instead of purchasing slaves idly without getting the results we do with this group, we shall just make our own."

The look on Mycroft's face was enough to show that he had no idea his father was going to say this. "Make our own?" he asked. "What on earth do you mean?"

"Oh, come, dear brother, try not to be so dense," said Sherlock. The boredom in his voice would seem to anyone else to be the ordinary amount—but John, who knew him so well, could see that whatever the Earl was proposing made him anxious. "Father implies that he wants these slaves to reproduce in order to make more slaves that are similar to the ones we already possess."

John was too busy panicking internally to even savour the stunned look on Mycroft's face, and the fact that the pop of his mouth falling open was actually audible. Because John probably looked about the same.

"Exactly," said the Earl. "But, as there is an uneven number of males to females, two couples will be chosen to mate."

John felt like his brain had begun to malfunction, the cogs clicking offbeat. Because with the 'uneven number of males to females', one thing was certain: there were more men than women. So he and Greg would be chosen no matter what.

The only question was which girl John was going to be forced to have sex with.

John was still looking at Mycroft, because somehow he didn't want to meet eyes with Sherlock out of embarrassment, and he never wanted to look at the Earl again. But Mycroft… he looked so alarmed, so appalled by his father's announcement that John liked Mycroft double as much as he had before.

"Father, don't you think we should talk about—"

"There's no talking to be done," said the Earl. "I've decided. I need only to look at the women to see which are the most fit to mate with."

John paid very little attention as the Earl pulled the five women out of line, asking them questions and looking at them closely and asking them to lift things. John was too busy having a break down that involved his mind nearly shutting down. But he did notice a few things, just because no amount of daze could make John not see it.

First of all, John was made amazingly uncomfortable by the fact that he was basically feeling up each woman. Cupping their breasts, asking them to lift up their skirts. John could kind of understand why he would want to look at these things when considering having them mate, but he still felt indignant for each woman it happened to.

Especially considering his own sister was in the lineup. The Earl wasn't creepy enough to assign his own sister to him, right? He shuddered at the thought.

He got through Molly and Mrs Hudson without consequence. Though John had a feeling Mrs Hudson wouldn't be chosen.

Then the Earl got to Anthea. He started asking her questions, like everyone else.

Except Anthea never spoke. Everyone knew that—except for the Earl, who was never around before now. So he asked her things, and she just stared.

"What, are you touched in the head?" he asked condescendingly. She just kept looking up at him. The Earl looked at his eldest son in irritation. "Is she stupid?" he asked Mycroft.

"Her name is Anthea. She doesn't speak, not since her first day here," Mycroft said. "I believe she's in a sort of depression since being separated from the things she loves. She does everything she's told though; she's a very good servant."

"A very good servant who disrespects her masters by not answering their questions."

"I don't think she means any disrespect," tried Mycroft, but the Earl didn't even seem to be listening.

"Okay, how about this?" said the Earl. "You'll speak, or you'll get fifty lashes."

"Father, is that really necessary?" asked Mycroft, seeming very much like his brother in being able to sound calm and disinterested when that wasn't the case at all.

"So Anthea," the Earl continued. "Which will it be?"

She still didn't speak, but her eyes were wide in the first real display of emotion John had seen since she complained about the loss of her mobile phone on that first night.

"Fine with me," said the Earl. "After we're done here, we'll take this one to the town square."

Anthea opened her mouth, like she considered talking, but nothing came out. John didn't even know her, but couldn't help but feel really horrible about what was going to happen to her. Maybe Sherlock could heal her after or something.

John glanced back up at Mycroft at the top of the steps, who was silent, but still looked distraught. John thought of looking to Sherlock, but found himself nervous again, and didn't. Somehow it made it worse that he could almost feel Sherlock's eyes on him, like he was trying to make eye contact.

John kept watching the proceedings before him with trepidation.

Mary was next, and she caused no issues, though he looked petrified.

Then was Harry.

If John knew a thing about Harry, it was that no matter how obedient she was capable of being at times, she wouldn't show off her body to anyone that she didn't want to. Especially not a man. She had a line you couldn't cross, and the Earl was about to cross it.

John met her eyes, and he saw clearly in them the defiance he already knew she was going to show. She knew it was coming, and she wasn't going to comply with his commands.

Which meant she was following in Anthea's footsteps.

As the Earl began with the question portion of the interrogation, John's eyes were drawn to movement at the top of the stairs. Sherlock had moved at vampiric speed to his brother's side, and was muttering in Mycroft's ear. John didn't know exactly what he was saying, of course, but it was easy to guess the subject matter, as Mycroft's eyes kept moving between Harry and John.

"Now," said the Earl. "I'll need you to lift your dress."

Harry kept looking at him, not moving, for a moment.

Then…

"Father," said Mycroft, "enough of this. I know you've already chosen."

"Have I?" he asked, his eyes glinting dangerously.

"Yes," said Sherlock with a fake yawn. "Obviously. You've Molly and Mary."

The Earl was quiet for a minute. "Yes, I suppose you're right. I suppose I can give Harriet here a reprieve. You don't honestly think I didn't hear that exchange, do you?"

Sherlock and Mycroft looked at each other for barely a second. "I only thought it a somewhat ill-conceived idea to get three of your best servants whipped in one day," said Sherlock. "In fact, I think it's rather unwise to incapacitate any of them, as then they become useless to you."

The Earl glared up at his sons.

"You two have gone soft. Probably from having your human servants living so close by." He paused for a moment, and then grinned like he'd just thought of the best idea in the world. John was immediately wary. "Effective immediately, your servants will live back in the dungeons with the others," he said. "Considering they'll need to mate anyway, this should work fine."

Both Mycroft and Sherlock came down the stairs quickly, in a blur so John hardly saw, and came up to their father on either side.

"Gregory is of invaluable assistance to me, father," said Mycroft.

"As is John to me. I need him around at any possible time."

"Exactly," Mycroft agreed, and John decided that he had met the only person on the planet that could make the two brothers agree on something.

The Earl glared up at both of his sons in turn, his upper lip twitching in fury. "Maybe you both don't remember, but my word is law. And if you argue this point any further, I'll assign you new servants altogether, as you seem to have become too fond of the ones you have."

At that, both of his sons grew grudgingly silent.

"Good," the Earl said with an oily smile. "Tonight, the mating shall begin. Greg with Molly, John with Mary. Now, before you all go back to work, I think I'll have you watch Anthea's public in the square, just so you understand exactly what I'm willing to do." He glared at Harry and John as he said that, as if the warning was specifically for them.

Poor Anthea was shaking with fear, and John wanted to comfort her, but didn't know what to say, not with the Earl around.

Everyone started to follow him out of the house, and when the Earl was outside, John found that Sherlock was at his side. They both must have thought the same thing: once the Earl was outside, the kitsune magic on the house made it impossible for him to overhear them talking.

Well, unless his vampire blood drinking frenzy had made him powerful enough to overcome that, but John tried not to even consider that possibility.

"Sherlock, this isn't going anything like you said. He's changing _everything_."

"I know," said Sherlock quietly, his voice more subdued than John had ever heard.

"Thank you for helping Harry. What did you say to Mycroft?"

"That there was no way Harry would show her body to a man, and that if the Earl tried to whip her, you would come to her rescue."

"But why does Mycroft care about me?"

"I don't believe I ever gave you permission to call me that." Mycroft had suddenly appeared at his side. John forgot that he hadn't left the manor yet.

"Oh—I…"

"Good thing my father has exhausted all my desire to punish anyone. Maybe forever. _Fifty_ lashes…" he muttered angrily as he went out the door.

"He's mad that it's fifty?" asked John to Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock said carefully, and Sherlock being careful with his words meant that whatever he was about to say was going to hit John hard, because usually he wouldn't bother. "Ten is the punishment for first offenses, typically. Twenty for anything after the first if it's minor, thirty if it's major. Forty is severe. If you did something completely out of line, several in a day, or if your master is just really angry that day."

"And fifty?"

"Might as well be a death sentence," said Sherlock. "Most won't live with fifty. Especially with vampiric strength, you could whip until organs start to spill out. Women are far less likely to survive than men, and thin women like her…"

He didn't need to finish.

"What if you gave her your blood now?"

"Not even my blood could heal her from this. Then she'd just have the chance of turning into a vampire instead of dying, and then father would kill both Anthea and me."

The thought of Sherlock dying was what made John give up on that strain of thought.

Then John's mind started swirling around, worrying on what was about to happen and what was supposed to happen that night.

First he'd watch a woman get tortured to death, then he'd be forced to have sex with Mary and impregnate her.

Yup. The Earl didn't change a thing.


	13. A Really Bad Day

**So I'm really really REALLY sorry this chapter took so long. I've been so busy lately, it's a miracle I have time to breathe. If you guys thought I had given up on this story, I definitely haven't. Hopefully there won't be any more huge gaps like that again. But yeah, I've been crazy busy. Probably after this story is done, I'm taking a break from FanFiction. Which is sad, but I just can't juggle all these things at once. **

**But anyway, here's the chapter. : ]**

* * *

John had tried to keep his eyes closed while Anthea was being whipped. But, apparently, all the slaves attempted this, and the Earl didn't like that at all.

"Open your eyes!" he snapped. "This shall be your punishment if you should disobey me. I want you to see it. Keep your eyes open or I'll Compel you never to blink again."

The threat was enough that everyone opened their eyes.

John didn't know the girl, hadn't spoken two words to her, but still felt horrible for her. She was looking at them all with dead eyes. At least she wasn't looking at them pleadingly, like they were supposed to try to do something—but she must have known there was no hope for her and somehow that made it worse for John. Because she might as well have been glaring at him, accusing him of causing the punishment himself, with how guilty he felt. He felt he needed to do something, but he was powerless to help in any way. Powerless to even decide whether or not he wanted to watch.

A moment later a hand was in his. He knew before he looked over that it was Harry, trying to make him feel better. Her older sister instinct had kicked in.

John looked over to Sherlock, who was across the circle from them, with his brother and father. He was already looking to John. His face was blank, and John couldn't really guess what he was thinking.

John was distressed enough that he hardly even noticed when a crowd started piling around, hardly heard the words of the vampire with the whip, didn't overhear how people were not calling this a punishment, but an execution.

The first whip strike cracked against her back and she wailed. John decided then that even if he had to keep his eyes open, he couldn't look at her. So he looked at Sherlock instead, who was still meeting his eyes.

After having shared blood with Sherlock more than once now, there was a connection between them that never was there before. Like their minds were closer. John—as he looked at Sherlock for longer and longer, trying to ignore the crack of the whip—almost felt he knew what Sherlock was thinking. Not words, but feelings. Apologetic concern towards John, mostly. Concern because Sherlock was wondering what affect this would have on John. Or maybe the concern was about the other thing, the one John couldn't even think on right now. The sex paled in comparison to what was happening right now.

The whipping felt like it went on for hours. Maybe it did. He and his sister—and probably the other slaves too, but he wasn't paying enough attention to them to know—flinched and winced with every blow.

He was able to keep looking into Sherlock's eyes and almost feel like he was in another world, somewhere where the sky was blue instead of retched burnt orange, somewhere where a public beating wasn't entertainment.

But he still noticed when one strike made… something spill out onto the ground around her, something that wasn't just blood. One of the people in the lineup with him vomited. So now there was the smell of blood, and also the stench of puke, infiltrating his nostrils. He was close to getting sick himself.

The entire time, the Earl had been calmly counting the lashes. He only noticed when he stopped.

"Forty-three," he said. Then the man stopped. She was supposed to get fifty, but he was stopping early. John knew it wasn't mercy. She was dead already.

"Now you see what happens when you disobey me," said the Earl. A pause. "Well. Other than the ones that aren't looking. Look at her!" he bellowed.

Without telling himself to do it, his eyes averted to her body.

John was sitting on Sherlock's bed. Sherlock was pacing. John was desperately trying to get the picture of Anthea's mutilated body out of his head. Where her organs were literally spilling out of her wounds. It seemed even in death, her face was contorted in pain, like not even that saved her from her misery.

Sherlock hadn't spoken, but he was obviously agitated. He was thinking furiously on something.

Finally he decided to say something. "No vampire can Compel someone without eye contact, or Compel a group of people all at once."

John heard the words, but really didn't listen much. His mind was somewhere else entirely.

"But my father was able to, with his yelled command of 'look at her', force all the slaves to look at her all at once. He obviously didn't have eye contact with all of you."

What if that had happened to Harry? God, he wouldn't have been able to live with that. He could hardly live with this.

"Obviously this increase in power is caused by his recent diet. But what else can he do that I haven't seen?"

And then there was tonight, when he was going to have to sleep in that dungeon again. And have to sleep with Mary. It still didn't seem like a huge deal next to what he'd seen, but it certainly was on his mind.

"The possibilities are nearly endless, and I need to know what exactly he can do. After the way he's been using his power, it really would be better to get rid of him. But to do that, I need to know the extent of his abilities."

Because he would actually have to bring a child into this horrible world? One that he most likely wouldn't be able to raise either.

"John, are you alright?"

He just couldn't do this. He couldn't handle this world. He had to get out. He—

The bed shifted as Sherlock sat in front of him. It made him snap out of his reverie.

"I'm sorry for what you had to see," said Sherlock. "It's obviously upset you."

"But not you," said John.

Sherlock just continued looking at him.

"How can that not matter to you?"

Sherlock sighed. "John, I kill people just to eat. Seeing one more person killed isn't likely to faze me."

John had already known that, really. He thought maybe it should bother him… but Sherlock just lived in a different world than John. Where these things weren't strange. It was part of the reason he hated this place. Sherlock wasn't a bad person, not really, but living here for so long has made him callous—more so than he likely already was.

But John didn't want to talk about that anymore. He wanted to pretend it had never happened, actually.

So instead he said, "So there's no point in hoping that the Earl won't go through with this reproduction thing, right?"

Sherlock looked relieved, like he thought John might get cross with him. "No, probably not," said Sherlock.

"Then what do I do?"

"I've been considering that."

"So?" John prompted.

A short pause. "Haven't the faintest," Sherlock said, standing.

"Wait, what? You don't _know_?"

"No," he replied.

The amount of things Sherlock didn't know lately was startling. John didn't like it.

Then the bell tolled. It was time to go to bed. And John wouldn't be sleeping up here anymore.

He looked to Sherlock with wide eyes.

"For tonight, just put it off," Sherlock said quickly. "He won't know if you didn't sleep with her. It's not like she'd look pregnant by tomorrow—and you could even not impregnate her on the first try, of course. I'll try to think of a solution."

John nodded. That made him feel a bit better about the whole thing. He could not sleep with her for now, and then Sherlock would figure out how to stop all this. It would be fine.

So John got on his nose and gave Sherlock a kiss, which was meant to be short but lingered a while, their hands gripping desperately at one another, like this would be the last time they would ever see each other. They pulled away from each other panting.

"You have to go."

"I know."

But still neither of them moved.

"I'm feeling quite apprehensive about this whole situation," Sherlock finally said. "I don't suppose… you'd just sleep with her?"

John looked up at him in surprise. "What?"

"The punishment if my father finds you aren't fornicating with the girl will likely be fifty lashes. I think with your weight and fortitude, you could well survive that… unless there's an unlucky swipe that rips open your stomach."

In response, John's stomach churned unhappily.

"I say this because I think it might be better if you just slept with her."

"You… you wouldn't mind?"

"Not particularly," said Sherlock. "It won't change what's between us."

John believed that, but still didn't like the thought of it.

"I don't know what I'll do," John finally said. "But if you could, you know, figure something out… that'd be good."

"I'll try. But really, you have to go."

John nodded, gave Sherlock a single peck, and rushed down to the dungeons.

And the Earl was there.

Molly and Greg were in the same cell. Mary was in a cell with the door standing open, the one John was obviously expected to go into.

John didn't know if it was disrespectful to ask, but he did anyway. "What are you doing here, sir?" he enquired with a bow.

"Why, I'm here to watch."

John swallowed, and the Earl smirked like he'd heard it. "Watch?" John asked.

"Yes. I am concerned that my commands won't be abided by if I don't watch. So here I am. Into the cell now."

John stood there, frozen. But then he felt himself starting to walk. He knew he wasn't Compelled this time, but he still felt like he wasn't the one moving. He was still in shock.

He couldn't put it off. He couldn't fake it. The Earl would be right there, watching.

He'd have to do it.

"I understand humans and their need for foreplay, so by all means, do so. Start with awkward conversation, for all I care. I have all night."

He sat down in a chair with his hands behind his head, the picture of leisure.

"Oh," he added with a smile. "And it'll be thirty lashes for each person that does not participate," he added. "I can't kill any more servants as of now, but a hearty punishment should suffice."

John looked over to Mary, who was wide eyed. Scared.

One thing he hadn't considered while thinking about this was the fact that Mary didn't want it either.

And to John, that seemed frighteningly like rape. And he didn't like that thought at all.

He decided to elect for that awkward conversation the Earl had suggested. "So… how are you?" he asked her.

Her eyebrow flicked up. "Really? That's what you're going with?"

John sighed. "I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to say right now."

She deflated too. "Yeah, neither do I."

"Will it make this any better if I say I'm sorry?"

She smiled a little, more sad than anything else. "I don't blame you, John."

"Well then why do I feel so bad about this?"

"Because you're a good person. If it makes any difference, I'm glad you and Greg were the only options, because both of you are decent blokes. If it had been anyone else… this would be a lot worse."

John glanced over and saw Molly and Greg were just looking at them, watching the conversation. He knew that just across the little hall were Harry and Mrs Hudson, probably trying to ignore what was going to happen. That's what he'd be doing, at least.

"I don't feel like a good person," John grumbled.

"Well you are. This place and the things they make you do don't change that."

"You know, I know you said the chatting was fine, but now you're just boring me. I think you should move on to the kissing or something."

Oh, and John had gone completely mad, he was sure. Or something had possessed him, because what he did next…

It was stupid. Plain and simple.

And it was just one little word.

"No."

Mary was staring at him, eyes petrified. But he was past caring. He turned to the Earl, who was looking a little surprised too, but with a little smile on his face.

"What was that?" the Earl asked.

"I won't do this," John said.

The Earl continued to look annoyingly entertained by the whole thing. "If you don't, you'll get Mary punished too. Thirty lashes each."

"But it's my choice, not hers. Just give me thirty."

"No. Any person who doesn't participate gets lashes, remember? Your chivalry can't save her. There'll be sixty lashes no matter how _good_ of a person you are."

And this was about the part where John _actually_ went mad.

"Then I'll take all sixty."

"_What_?" someone hissed frantically behind him. Harry was saying something angrily at him, probably about being stupid. He ignored it all.

The Earl's eyes were shining with excitement at the thought.

"I'm not supposed to be killing more servants," he said, dramatically running his fingers over his chin in thought. "But that's just such a nice offer. I've never seen someone get sixty before." More pensive silence.

"Okay, I agree to it. Sixty lashes, and dear Mary won't have to sleep with anyone once you're dead." He stood up. "Come on, let's go."

"Wait, now?" asked John.

"Why not now?"

John felt amazingly numb about the whole thing. Like he was already resigned to his fate.

If fifty was a death sentence, then what was sixty?

Well, he'd soon find out.


	14. Counting

They went up to the entry hall and Sherlock was already standing in front of the door.

In the long thirty seconds since he'd agreed to this, he hadn't thought about Sherlock. All that had been running though his head was getting tired of being bossed around, his absolute refusal to rape Mary, but also his determination to make sure she didn't get punished.

But now there Sherlock was, his pale eyes on John. His face was blank again, like always.

But somehow—maybe it had to do with how detached he felt from his body right now—he could not only see Sherlock's true emotions, but actually hear thoughts being shot at him.

_John, you idiot_, they hissed at him, so much anger there that it had to be an emotion deeper than just anger.

_I couldn't do it, Sherlock,_ John thought back, his voice even in his head dead and feeble. _I had to do something. _

_And now you're going to die! What is that stupid girl worth that you should die for her?!_

John was probably imagining the exchange, but he was still surprised by it. Sherlock's rage, which was pure pain and fear just beneath the surface, was so unlike Sherlock's ordinary demeanour.

_Luckily_, Sherlock continued,_ I have a plan._

_That will make me live?_

_That will make it even possible for you to survive this if luck is on your side_, he corrected, the rage still tingeing his thoughts.

_It's too late for me, Sherlock_, said John.

_I. REFUSE. To. Accept. That_, replied Sherlock, each word spat at him like an individual sentence. Before John could argue in his mind, Sherlock said quickly,_ Just remember, one possible cause of death is shock from the pain. You must ignore the pain as much as you can. Think of something, anything, that can help you not to think on it._

_I don't think force of will can save me now, _said John.

Sherlock's mind didn't reply.

All this happened in a second. Still, they were standing across the room from each other. Still Mary was behind John, because the Earl said she would have to watch him save her. The others weren't allowed to join.

The Earl was only just starting to wonder what Sherlock was doing there. And John was wondering what he was doing there too. What would he say to try to stop this? Would it make any difference at all?

"What are you going here?" asked the Earl.

"He's my servant. Thus, I get to be there when you punish him," said Sherlock.

John's stomach dropped into his feet at the nonchalant way he said it.

It all rolled through John's head at once. What if Sherlock wasn't human enough to care if John was to die? All that exchange could have been in John's head, after all. Sherlock's blank face could really just be blank. Sherlock could never have cared about John at all.

John physically was just the same as a moment before, as his mind wasn't in sync with his body anymore, but his brain was panicking and shutting down at the same time.

But even as he thought it, the voice he had to be imagining was there in his head. _John, I have to play along for him to let me come. _

John would be dead soon anyway, what did it matter that Sherlock might never have cared? He was going to hold onto the love that he'd come to cherish so dearly as if it might still be real, because it's the only thing at all that he had left.

The next thing John was fully aware of, they were outside again in the red. The four of them were walking to the place where public punishments were held, and then Mycroft caught up.

"You're completely mad," said Mycroft to his father. "John's one of our best servants. He keeps your less than rule-concerned son in check and you're going to kill him!"

"He offered it," replied the Earl.

"Who the bloody hell cares if he offered it? Sherlock—"

He broke off, looking to his brother, and then glancing to John. John wondered in that moment, for half of a second, if Mycroft knew the truth about the two of them.

"Mycroft," said Sherlock in the pause, as if trying to disguise the moment of silence from his father, "there's no saying John will die from this. His fortitude is high, his bulk can protect him. He's always been quite resistant to pain—I would know." He looked to his father. "Isn't that right, father? John could live."

"He _could_," the Earl agreed, trying his best not to make it sound doubtful.

Mycroft kept looking at Sherlock for another moment, and John had no idea what he saw there in his brother's eyes, but then he said, "Of course, Sherlock, you're right. He could live."

They kept walking, and John held onto this too. That Sherlock might be hoping he'd live.

He was taken to the place where Anthea had been killed. He didn't know what bothered him more, the fact that every trace of her had been cleaned away like it never happened, or the fact that someone else probably died here since.

_John, remember. Concentrate on what makes you strong. On the reasons why you need to stay alive. I'll handle the rest. You have to concentrate though. There's no vampire blood in your system anymore. You won't turn if you fail. You'll only die. Stay strong, John._

John was still sure he was imagining Sherlock's silky baritone in his mind, but he still listened to it, because it was giving good advice.

What he was holding onto was Sherlock. That's all. The need to know if Sherlock really never cared at all, or if Sherlock had a plan up his sleeve. He had to survive long enough to get an answer to that question. He HAD to.

"For disobedience, this slave will take sixty lashes," the Earl told the crowd.

They sounded surprised. "Wow, _sixty_? What the hell did he do?" asked one.

"He's taking thirty for himself, and thirty for another. He's a hero, you see."

Jeers in response.

"I could still take mine," said Mary feebly. "He doesn't need to take them for me."

Laughs from the crowd.

"Oh, it's far too late for that," said the Earl. John's hands were being secured to the pole. His shirt had already been discarded to the floor. He couldn't see it.

But then he looked up to Sherlock, only a few feet in front of him. He was holding the tunic. Still meeting John's eyes.

"Head down!" commanded the random vampire that would start the whipping. John savoured Sherlock's face for one more moment before looking at the ground.

"Are you ready, John Watson?" asked the Earl quietly. But loudly enough that some in the ground chuckled.

Just because this could be his last moments and he couldn't get in any more trouble than he already was, he said, "Yes, I'm quite ready. Give them to me."

More raucous laughing.

"He's a brave one!" heckled a voice John knew immediately as Vercon. Of course he'd come to watch John die.

"We'll see how brave he is a few minutes from now!" another replied.

"You may begin," said the Earl.

John braced himself for pain worse than anything he could imagine.

And then…

One.

Wow. That didn't hurt nearly as bad as he thought it might. It still hurt, and he still grunted, but it wasn't unbearable.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

This could have been much, much worse, John decided.

Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

The pain steadily increased with each one. But not too much. More so when one lash overlapped another.

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

Far unlike earlier with Anthea, the numbers being called out were not dull fuzz in the background. They were loud and clear. Each number meant he was closer to being finished. To knowing his answer.

Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.

His breathing was escalating, but he still hadn't actually yelled out.

People were noticing too. "He really _is_ a tough one!"

Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.

"Those were Mary's," said the Earl. "Now you can have yours."

Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five.

The pain was getting worse. There was no free skin to strike, so everywhere the whip fell had already been sliced. Which was part of the reason people died. Slicing too far in.

Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Forty.

Okay, this was near the unbearable point now. John mentally grasped for his lifeline, for the thing he was holding onto. Sherlock. There he was. There was his face, clear as day in John's brain.

Forty-one. Forty-two. Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five.

"Goddamnit!" he groaned out, his first audible sign of pain. He'd managed to keep from screaming. Dignity even in almost death.

"There it is!" said one man.

Forty-one.

"But he might actually survive this," said another man in the crowd.

Forty-two.

John was feeling rebellious with the pain coursing through him like read hot lead mixed with adrenaline.

Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five.

"You can't get rid of me that easy!" he cried, but it came out as a moan.

Forty-six. Forty-seven.

"Aghhhh!"

It was the first real cry of pain, and the crowd cheered. It only made John hold onto Sherlock in his mind closer.

Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Fifty.

Some harsh sound was trying to come out of his throat. John thought it was a sob, so he fought it down.

Unbearable had arrived.

And he had ten more to go.

Ten more than anyone else had ever had to endure.

But most didn't get to fifty. So John had hope, if only a little.

"Sherlock," he murmured. It was, luckily, an incomprehensible moan.

But still, in his mind came the voice again. _I told you I'd handle the rest_. It sounded strained, which John didn't understand. _Just hold on. I know you can do this._

Fifty-one.

A yell.

Fifty-two.

"Fuck!"

Fifty-three.

The sobs were fighting to come out again.

Fifty-four.

"Sher…" Again, it was impossible to understand.

And again the voice came to him, still sounding off. In pain. _Hold on. You aren't allowed to leave me, John. Never._

Fifty-five.

He was heaving in as much air as he could, like he couldn't get enough in, just to keep from crying. Well, audibly. He didn't know how long tears had been rolling down his face mingled with sweat and splattered blood from his own torso.

Fifty-six.

_I can't_, he managed to think to the voice that, in his haze of pain and pain and more pain he was certain was really Sherlock's thoughts. That they'd become close enough to hear one another.

He wanted to let it all black out. He couldn't take even one more hit. He couldn't do it.

Fifty-seven.

It didn't matter that he was almost done. He wanted to die right now. Couldn't he just die? Couldn't the whip mercifully take the skin from his abdomen, and when all that's inside him pooled by his feet, he wouldn't have to feel this anymore, right?

_John, don't you dare_, came Sherlock's vehement thoughts.

_Why are you in pain_? John suddenly wondered.

_For you_, said Sherlock. _Always for you. So you better keep on living. I forbid you to ever leave me. _

Fifty-eight.

_Sherlock, please. Let me die._

_Never. _

_What's the point?_

_The point is that I love you. And I'll never stop loving you. And if you get through this, I'll find a way for the two of us to leave here together, to be just you and me forever. _

God, did John like that thought. _Really?_

_Yes. So hold on. Just a little longer. _

Fifty-nine.

"I love you." Another moan that wasn't real words, but it didn't matter if the other's heard. It was for him. He couldn't leave. Sherlock loved him, and John couldn't die when Sherlock loved him. Just like he hadn't wanted to cause Mary pain, he didn't want to cause Sherlock any either. Even more so, really. He'd never in his life known someone that he'd never forgive himself for hurting. So he was going to hold on.

Sixty.

The crack was loud in the utter silence that had built up in anticipation. John's cry of pain was conspicuously absent. He kept himself from yelling.

John was on his knees. He didn't remember when he lost the ability to stand. He didn't remember when his arms starting wrenching away from the pole, trying to get out of the rope that tied them there, but his wrists were running with blood down to his elbows, dripping into the red around him.

It was a long moment of silence.

John's head lolled upwards to look at Sherlock. Now John saw the pain in his face. Something was wrong.

But nobody else was looking at Sherlock, because John had just proven that he was still alive.

And then the crowd cheered.

"My god, I never thought I'd be impressed by a human, but that was amazing!"

"Holmes, that's really something. You must have some fantastic hired help."

The Earl's voice joined the conversation. "I keep a tight ship," he said. "Sherlock, untie your servant. Care for him. If he survives the night, I'll be quite impressed."

That was around the time when John's vision went out.


	15. Unexpected Object

**I wish there wasn't such a big gap between chapters right now. You probably keep thinking I'm dead or something. Or at least am giving up on the story. But I'm not, I swear. Just really busy still. Anywho, here you go. : ]**

* * *

John woke up in a haze of pain with a wrist pressed against his mouth, running with warmth. Even though the hurt that made his brain work at half speed, he knew what this was for. He opened his mouth and took it gladly.

But it was pulled away too quickly. He moaned at the loss. The pain was a bit better, enough that he could think properly, but it was still there.

"I can't—can't give anymore," said Sherlock, and he was heaving in breath. John looked at him more closely. He was pale, and he looked tired. He moved a bit and winced.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? Tell me."

Sherlock stood, walking carefully over to his desk and picking up a bottle of Black Magic wine. He handed John a small glass of it, the poured a generous portion for himself. Something he rarely did.

John chugged down the wine, and it gave a bit more relief. The pain, instead of radiating over his whole body, was now just in his back—the pain in his wrists was nothing compared to his back, so he couldn't feel it.

"Sherlock," he said the moment he swallowed down the wine, "are you hurt?"

John narrowed his eyes as he looked over Sherlock once more. He couldn't see anything… But then he smelled it.

Blood.

It might sound silly, since John was bleeding, but this smelled different. A smell he knew. Sherlock's blood.

"Why are you bleeding?" John asked, trying to stand, but he got quite dizzy and sat back down on the bed.

Sherlock sighed and sat gingerly in his chair, on the edge of the seat. But he still winced.

"John," he said, his voice in pain just like it had been in John's head, "I told you I had a plan. I told you to leave the rest to me. Did you honestly think I was just sitting there watching you?"

John didn't understand what Sherlock meant by that. "Well… what were you doing then?"

"It's a trick vampires have. Hardly any of us ever use it, because it requires an amount of compassion most of us don't possess… but we have an ability to take pain away from someone else. If someone's getting injured in some way, a vampire can use his magic to make some of the pain their own instead. So that's what I did."

John had even been thinking, in the very beginning, that the pain wasn't as bad as he expected.

He was only experiencing half of it.

"So you mean that if you hadn't helped, I would have died?" asked John.

Sherlock was silent, scowling like he didn't even like John suggesting that in his presence, but then he nodded.

"Show me," said John after a long moment.

John expected him to argue. But apparently, the pain had tamed him. He stood and removed his coat, then his dress jacket, and his shirt too. All while he was facing John, so John couldn't see his back, but his white shirt was very clearly covered in blood when it was tossed away.

Then he turned. John winced at the sight. His back was a crisscrossing map of red, swollen and still bleeding.

It was an automatic reaction, the words that left John's mouth. "Sherlock, take my blood."

"You can't spare it."

"We'll share."

"We don't have enough to share right now."

"So it won't help at all?"

"It will a little," Sherlock agreed. "But it won't heal us, only dull the pain."

"Then get over here," John insisted.

Sherlock, again, couldn't argue. John took Sherlock's already cut arm and put it in his mouth as Sherlock bit into his wrist.

The experience wasn't sexual the way it would normally be, probably because of the intensity of the injuries, but John was still whisked into a memory.

* * *

"It's amazing, the strength of your servant," my father said to me. Honestly, I was having a bit of trouble thinking straight. There was the pain in my back, of course, but that was nothing. That was nothing at all compared to the thought that John was lying in my bed, possibly dying. And my father really thought it necessary to waste my time talking to him for a spell at the bottom of my tower. It was infuriating. In fact, I kind of wanted to rip the man limb from limb for what I just had to watch him do to John. It didn't matter that I had taken some of John's pain away. It didn't matter that John somehow wasn't dead, and he'd probably make a full recovery. What mattered was that my own father took the man I loved and beat him. And, oh god, how badly I wanted to beat him back for it.

I wondered for a moment why I didn't just do it.

Until I remembered the power my father now had from drinking from other vampires. I'd die if I tried to injure him.

But that didn't mean I didn't still want to.

All these thoughts rolled through my head in only a few seconds. So I replied, "Yes, I knew he had the fortitude to handle your punishment."

"On his own?"

I looked over to my father blandly while on the inside wishing a million painful deaths upon him, imagining what it might feel like to crush his bones in my hand. "What, do you imagine he borrowed some fortitude from elsewhere?"

"That's exactly what I imagine." My father smirked, giving me a slap on the back that would have looked friendly to anyone else, but he was testing for a wince. He guessed what I had done to help John. But I wouldn't show him it hurt. I had more control over my body than to show pain when I really didn't want to. I just kept looking at him, keeping my expression patronising, as to make him know that I thought his implication was silly.

"Then you're more paranoid than I would have supposed."

He kept looking at me like he could make me uncomfortable enough to reveal the truth. If he thought that, he didn't know me at all.

Though, of course, that was true, he really didn't.

"I think you're fond of your servant."

"He's very good for the jobs that I have him perform, so yes, if that makes me fond, then I am fond of him."

"I think you've begun to care for him."

"Do you? Interesting."

"You know, as he was being whipped, I heard him say 'I love you'."

Oh, I had really hoped he hadn't heard that. Though I had been just the slightest bit flattered at the moment John uttered it, I knew it was a really stupid thing to do in hindsight.

"Possibly he was in love with someone back on Earth. That would explain why he didn't want to sleep with one of the other slaves."

"Possibly," my father replied, still looking at me with eyes boring into my skull.

"Well," I said, "now that you've gone and injured my slave, I'll have to heal him up if I want to get any work done. So if you'll excuse me." I started up the steps, amazed at how every part of my being pulled me in his direction, like there was no other place I could stand to be other than at his side.

"Just remember," said my father from the bottom of the stairs, "what happens to people who care."

My father let that hang in the air as I went back into my room.

* * *

John never got used to being in Sherlock's head. It was a foreign feeling to him. Even as he saw a specific memory, it was like a million other thoughts were swirling around him, too quick for John to catch. Was that what it felt like to be a genius? Was your mind literally full to the bursting, making it hard to concentrate?

"We learn to focus," Sherlock said to John, and John looked up to him in surprise.

"Did you just—"

"Hear your thoughts? No, I guessed."

"But then… what about earlier? Was I really hearing your thoughts, or was I imagining things?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "No, you heard them. I didn't realise until this morning that we could do that. I'd heard of that kind of connection between a vampire and a human… I just never thought I would ever experience it."

"Will it work all the time?"

"In time, possibly, but for now only when one of us is quite desperate to talk to the other."

"So… you meant that about leaving here," John said.

"Yes, I meant it," said Sherlock, "but it might take a long time for that to be possible. I don't know how to leave."

"But how could you survive out there? The sun will burn you up."

"Not with a lapis lazuli ring enchanted by a witch."

"I remember you saying something about that, but how do you get something—"

That was when Sherlock went into one of his drawers and pulled out a gaudy silver ring with a dark blue gem in the middle.

"You already have one," John said to answer his own query.

"I was on Earth for a while before I came down here, remember."

"Oh, right…" John muttered. "So now we just need to figure out how to leave."

"Right."

John considered it. Him and Sherlock really leaving together. Getting out of this stupid world forever, living on earth. Could he save the other slaves too, or would they be left here to suffer? John didn't know if he could handle that, so he hoped he could save someone else. His sister, if nobody else.

But, after a moment of thinking that, he noticed something on Sherlock's side table. Maybe Sherlock had already noticed it, but the seal on the envelope was unbroken, and that implied he might not have seen it yet. He'd been rather distracted by John, after all.

"Sherlock, what's this?" he asked, picking up the envelope. He looked closer at the seal, which was made of black wax and was emblazoned with an M.

Sherlock, in a flash, was standing beside where I was sitting, staring down at the letter. John looked up at him and he could easily translate the look on Sherlock's face… as fear. Then it was anger.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock began to pace. Either the blood had helped immensely or he was too distracted by his thoughts to feel the pain in his wounds.

"I always figured he was human. Why wouldn't he be? There was never a reason… but this… I never expected…"

"Sherlock, what the hell are you on about?"

"That letter!" Sherlock cried, turning on John with eyes full of fire. "That letter, there in your hand!"

"What about it? Who's it from?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment—probably for dramatic effect, the prat—before he told John the answer.

"Moriarty."

John remembered the name quite suddenly. He was Sherlock's last case before he was taken here, a man he exchanged letters with. Some sort of criminal mastermind.

"A man you used to hunt a hundred years ago… just sent you a letter."

"Which means he was a vampire. I mean, I should have guessed it. _Someone _turned me and my family, and I had even considered that it might have been him… but I didn't give the theory very much thought, because I hoped it wasn't true. But not only is he alive, but he's _here_.

"But why would he send you a letter after a hundred years of silence?"

Sherlock's eyes moved from John's own, shifting down to the letter in his hand. "Only one way to find out."


End file.
